


The Cursed Valley

by Giroshane



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, Multi, Nymphs & Dryads, POV Multiple, Time Jumping, Werewolves, all manner of things really, heck its gonna be a long and wild ride folks, monster au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-07-05 08:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: In this world, there are the Dark Folk. Furs, Fairies, Fangs, and more. Emma Cullen brought a whole gang of them to save Rose Creek, and save Rose Creek they did. But now the survivors of that battle are left to travel, having formed a connection they don't wish to break. A new opportunity to save the day arises in a small valley in the north, where Dark Folk and Humans have coexisted peacefully until a recent string of disappearances. For Sam, Red Harvest, and Vasquez, nothing is as it seems--especially when more survived Rose Creek than they thought.





	1. Prologue: Emma

**Author's Note:**

> Welp I've gone and done it--joined a Big Bang for one of my favorite Westerns. Seriously this has been a hella fun ride and even though the end of this fic is...nowhere in sight, sorry (what can I say? I'm a prolific bitch), I hope yall enjoy this introduction over the next couple days! (Also: my artist is currently not done with the art for my fic, so it will be added at a later date! For now, it is simply an aesthetic board.)

A dry wind rolled across the fields outside Rose Creek, and it carried with it the faint scent of smoke. Smoke wasn’t an uncommon smell out here, not by a long shot, but Emma was nonetheless alarmed. Smoke usually blew out of the town, a smoke signal to the universe that it was still standing, after everything that had happened. Smoke didn’t usually blow _in_ , and it didn’t usually have such a sweet undertone to it. And it didn’t usually come from the graves in the field outside of town.

Emma was suddenly grateful for the gun strapped to her hip; many of the folks in town still criticized her for carrying a weapon after the battle was over (and a flask for that matter), but she found comfort in the weight, in the power, and in the knowledge that should the need to fight ever arise again, she could do so before someone else she cared about was ripped from her life. Now, her fingertips graced along the handle. Where there was smoke, there was fire, and if some ill-intentioned vandal had decided to burn those graves on that hill, by _G_ _od_ she was going to make them pay. After all, she was their sentinel, the one who visited every day (obsessed, the townsfolk called her)--she owed them that much, at least.

But when she reached the top of the ridge, the four crosses were still standing tall, and there was no fire, and there was no vandal. The scent of smoke was stronger than ever though, and she could place the sweet scent now: some kind of herb, a tea maybe. Emma scanned the field that stretched beyond the ridge, and the woods that stretched beyond that. No sign of a fire, or a camp. No sign of anything. That did not calm her.

Another gust of wind brought the smoke scent on even stronger, but this time she was able to pinpoint it. She looked down, frowning. It was coming from the graves.

Correction: it was coming from _Billy’s_ grave.

She knelt down before the gravemarker, and that’s when she could finally see the smoke: it was low, and faint, tangled in the grass before the breeze tugged it away to nothing. It seeped up from the dirt continuously.

Graves didn’t normally burn from the inside out.

Emma remembered dimly, several weeks ago, Teddy’s quiet, wary comment, once he and Faraday had rejoined her and Chisholm (and the newly recruited Vasquez), Goodnight and Billy in tow. He was usually comfortable in his Sight; despite his shy nature, he said his clairvoyance gave him a sense of confidence, in always knowing what he was up against. When he pulled her aside to talk, he’d been tense and taught as a piano wire.

 _“I know we agreed to not discriminate in our desperation to find an army, Mrs. Cullen,”_ _He said, “but these are dark folk I ain’t ever come across before. They give me a great sense of unease.”_

_“Faraday--”_

_“Is a fur, I know, ma’am. But Goodnight has nothing but death about him. And his companion has nothing but fire.”_

_Fire_. Emma couldn’t say she was well-versed in the dark folk of the world, outside of the ones she had met, and the ones she’d heard stories about. Furs, they were the most common, especially out in the west. Fangs stayed north and east, where the trees were dense enough to block out the sun no matter the time of day, and there were plenty of people to feed on. Then there were the tales of fae, sneaking in among the ships of the Irish and English settlers. Witches in the east. Bloodthirsty spirits in the south. None of the stories she’d heard involved fire.

Cautiously, she ran her hand through the smoke and grass. There was no visible fire underneath, but the dirt she touched was warm.

The dirt she touched surged up into her hand until it burst, sending her back with a scream as a thick plume of smoke spiraled out, blinding her vision and filling her lungs. She felt the touch of skin, of grasping fingers, and screamed again until she could only cough, scurrying back on her elbows. The smoke was quickly rising up into the sky, but she couldn’t make out anything past a warped, utterly _massive_ shadow. It seemed to move towards her and she screamed again, quickly pulling out her gun and aiming. But her hand was shaking so terribly her shot went wide--but not wide enough to miss, somehow.

The shadow--shadows, she could make out two--jerked, and continued to move back and forth, and from the smoke she heard a pained cry. In that moment her senses returned, and she held her fire. Despite every instinct telling her to kill the monster rising from the grave, she tried to hold onto the fact that it was Billy Rocks that had been buried in that grave, and it might be Billy Rocks coming out.

The shadows kept moving, back and forth--flapping, Emma realized. As they flapped smoke billowed away, clearing the air as much as they could, but unfortunately blowing it straight into her face. She coughed and rubbed at her streaming eyes with her free hand. When she could finally see again, when she could finally _breathe_ again, the shadows were no longer shadows, they were _wings_. Stretching out farther than Emma was tall, and glowing as if set on fire by the setting sun. No, glowing because they _were_ on fire. Smoke was rising up from them instead of out now, and as she watched, red and orange feathers ignited, fell to ash, and regrew in seconds, in patches. There was a spot in the right wing, where Emma realized she had put a bullet through, that was especially volatile, burning at a far faster rate than the rest.  
  
And at the center of it all was Billy Rocks, naked as the day he was born though still half-buried in ash and dirt, hunched and clawing at the ground and choking on the smoke pouring out of his own mouth. His skin was dirt-stained and red, and Emma could see ash spilling out of the bullet-holes that had taken his life. Every now and then a groan of agony made it past the choking coughs.

As much as she tried to reassure herself that it was indeed Billy Rocks, horror stilled Emma’s tongue, watching wide-eyed and dumb as gradually the feathers settled, no longer catching fire. They still retained that unnatural glow to them, and it gave the feeling that they radiated heat, that if one got too close they would burn. The smoke finally began to dissipate, and Billy began to take proper gulps of air, coughing less and less.

In the distance, Emma heard shouts of alarm; the townsfolk must have heard her gunfire and seen the smoke. She had to get her wits about her quick before a whole damn posse rode out--they would shoot Billy much like she had if she didn’t stop them first, she was sure of it. She just had to be sure it was really him.

Emma shifted onto her knees, leaning forward a little to try and meet his eyes.

“Billy?” She asked, voice hoarse from the smoke. Billy didn’t seem to hear her, still hunched over and gasping. “Billy Rocks, is that you?”

Slowly, ever slowly, Billy raised his head to look at her. His own eyes flickered like fire, no pupil or iris to be seen, but they were streaming. They didn’t seem to be actually _seeing_ her. No longer suffering the agony he seemed to have been in earlier, he was simply shaking now, from cold or nerves Emma wasn’t sure. She watched the fire of his eyes shrink into irises and focus on her, and in the same instant, his wings folded in. They were tense, braced about him like a shield.

As hoofbeats and shouts grew louder and louder, Billy said only two words.

“ _Where’s Goody?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately my life has been kind of a mess, and this fic is so huge it's...woof. 51 outlined chapters. I'm hoping to post the first six over this weekend for the Big Bang, then the next two as I write them so you get a complete POV cycle. After that, this fic will be going on (indefinite, because, yanno, life) hiatus so I can write the next 8 chapters. This means radio silence, then a burst of chapters. In this way I can keep better track of my story and hopefully stay invested enough to keep going, as well as give you guys more cohesive (and longer!) chunks to read. Also, the tags I have are basic, and I'll likely be adding more as I go--if you feel something should be tagged, let me know! And if you got this far, thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed the story so far!
> 
> PS. I'm also slowly working on building a spotify playlist for this. There's a song for each chapter, but I'm working on organizing it. What I'll likely do is have the playlist be as long as what's posted and add a song for each chapter posted. Because why not. I'll share it once it's ready!


	2. Present: Vasquez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late at night again! Closing shifts at work....eughhhh. But now we get into the swing of things! The next two chapters!

It went unspoken that they were together now. What the three of them had been through, what they had lost (he tried to tell himself they hadn’t lost much, how much could they lose in the space of two weeks?), it connected them. It bonded them. That being said, Vasquez had expected Red Harvest to separate and go off on his own within days. The kid had been such a loner to begin with, and as explained to Vasquez, had a different “destiny”, whatever that meant. But though the kid would go off on his own now and then, to hunt or track or whatever he did, Red Harvest stayed. He still wasn’t much for conversation, but Vasquez understood why now.

Hard to hold a conversation when if you’re not careful, you could destroy someone else’s eardrums.  

Even so, Vasquez wouldn’t mind a little _warning_ before having a goddamn banshee show up at the campfire over his shoulder.

“Hijo _de perra_!” He hissed, jerking away from the glowing eyes suddenly looming behind him. Instinctively his hiss dropped to a growl, in a blink his vision changed, and at the same time he realized that it was Red—

“Settle down, Vasquez.” Sam Chisholm called across the campfire, an amused smile belying his sharp stare. Vasquez had been finding himself the subject of it as of late, though he didn’t know why, and it really only grated on his nerves more than anything else.

Red Harvest snickered and shifted over to be closer to Chisholm, his eyes dimming in the proper light, while Vasquez continued to growl (though he did settle).

“You laugh, chillón,” He spat, “but you won’t be laughing next time when I claw your throat out!”

“You always say that.” Red Harvest said, unperturbed.

“And one time I’m going to make good on it.”

“As if.”

“Play nice, you two.” Sam rolled his eyes, unamused at being drawn into the role of chiding parent. Vasquez looked to him defensively.

“He’s the one always starting shit. How are we supposed to get any sleep, him passing to and from like a ghost, with those--”

“You know, Vasquez,” Sam drawled, cutting him off. Vasquez couldn’t place the emotion on the man’s face, “I never figured you to be this much of a complainer.”

Red Harvest continued to snicker as Vasquez felt his cheeks warm.

“Only because you two are a drain on my sanity. If I had known, I would have run back off into the woods.” He retorted.

“It’s honestly surprisin’ to me that you haven’t.” Sam said coolly. His eyes were piercing.

Ah. So that’s what had been on Sam’s mind lately.

“Our agreement is over. Your warrant is still out there, but I’m not collecting. Now Red,” He gestured to the man in question, “Red is a free spirit, and feels his place is here for the time being. But you,” he pointed at Vasquez, “I pegged you for a loner.”

Now Vasquez felt the stares of both Sam and Red boring into him. Out of habit he bared his teeth, proverbial hackles raising. He met Sam’s stare measure for measure, but didn’t say anything. A nonverbal challenge. _What’s it to you?_

“Now I’m of no mind as to your choices, but if you’re just going to complain about this arrangement, why not just leave?” Sam asked.

The other shoe drop, that was it. Had Vasquez really been that unamenable to their current “arrangement”? Looking back on the past couple of weeks…

Vasquez had been irritated when they began travelling north.

He was grumpy whenever they had to stop in a town for provisions.

He complained whenever they’d been riding for too long.

He griped whenever they had to eat squirrel (in his defense, squirrel was terrible).

He hated how Red could sneak around like a damn ghost.

He hated how Sam seemed to know everything.

He hated that there were only three of them now.

That last one was at the core of it all, wasn’t it. It was the thought that stung the most, the one that dug into his chest and reminded him there were holes there, now. Too many holes, the people that had filled them there too quickly and gone too soon, and he _hated_ it. All he had now were Sam and Red. Two potential holes just waiting to tear into Vasquez and leave him empty again.

But fuck if he was going to say that out loud. He wouldn’t even begin to know how to articulate it. He didn’t even want to admit it to himself.

So he launched to his feet, spat at the fire, pivoted on his heel and stalked into the woods. If they wanted him gone, he could get gone (not acknowledging the fact he had left all his things at the fire, that deep down, leaving wasn’t what he wanted). Within seconds the crackle of the fire was muffled by the thick trees, the light suffocated by them too. That wasn’t a challenge for him, at the very least. It _was_ a challenge for Sam, who--once Vasquez had partially shifted--he could hear stumbling through the underbrush after him.

“Vasquez!”

Vasquez growled low in his throat, and continued on. What did Sam want to do now? Chide him further? Did he want Vasquez gone or not?

“Vasquez! Wait!”

Vasquez heard the bubbling sound of an upcoming stream, and in the dark he could see it was wide enough he could jump over if he shifted, whereas Sam would have to trudge through if he was so insistent. Vasquez jumped up onto a large rock at the bank of the stream--

“ _Anselmo_!”

That stopped him. He hadn’t heard that name in...in _months_. In fact, it almost made him bristle to hear it come out of Sam’s mouth. How did Sam even know it? Vasquez had never said it. He didn’t remember it being on his warrant, as promised, but maybe it had been, in tiny print. Vasquez left Anselmo buried in an unmarked grave the day he earned that warrant. Hearing it again tugged at the edges of one of the holes in his chest. One of the ones that had been there long before Rose Creek.

He didn’t go back. He didn’t even turn to look at Sam. He swallowed thickly, and sat down on the rock. The silence was deafening: crickets, animals in the brush, an owl, and all the words Sam didn’t say as he approached. He hopped up onto the rock, and in his own oddly graceful way settled down next to Vasquez. He sighed.

Vasquez wasn’t expecting the first words out of his mouth to be “I’m sorry”.

“I am,” Sam insisted, as though he could see the incredulous look that definitely wasn’t on Vasquez’s face, “I realize I might have...sounded a bit accusatory. It was not my intention. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on in that head of yours. Normally it’d be none of my business but it’s been three weeks, and Red and I are getting worried that something’s troubling you right fierce.”

“Why should it matter to you? It’s my shit, not yours.” Vasquez murmured, gaze fixed on the tumbling currents of the stream.

“Well as I mentioned, you’re complaining far more than usual--and if you’re not complaining, well, you seem a little caught up in yourself. If you want the straight and narrow reason, that’s not a good place to be in if we ever come across any trouble. If you want the truth,” Sam sighed, “we’re _really_ worried about you. We’re travelling together, it’s only natural for us to care about the wellbeing of one another.”

Maybe that idea just didn’t seem possible to Vasquez. Maybe it rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit that he missed that kind of thing. Either way, he bristled.

“ _Why?_ You’ve known me for only a handful of weeks. A _month_. You don’t know me, not really.” He spat. “What happened was a--a-- _fue_ _loco_ , but it happened. It was weeks ago. It is over now.”

Sometimes he hated his night vision, because he could see and feel the full force of Sam’s stare.

“How many times are you gonna tell yourself that before you admit it ain’t true?” He said. Vasquez growled and looked away, hunching over. Sam sighed again. They sat in silence for a couple minutes as Sam seemed to put his thoughts together.

“How long were you on the run, on your own?” He asked eventually.

“What? It wasn’t on my warrant?” Vasquez snorted.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember exactly what was on it.” Sam said wryly. “Especially considerin’ my copy of it is currently ripped up in pieces and scattered on the floor of a secluded lonely cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

Vasquez couldn’t help but chuckle darkly at that. He bit his lip, thinking on it.

“About...seven months, maybe?” He said. “You lose track of the days when you’re just focused on running.”

“A good long while then.” Sam said.

“I stopped in towns.”

“But you didn’t spend much time with folks, did you? Can’t really do that, not when you’re wanted.” Sam pointed out.

Vasquez shifted uncomfortably. Sam wasn’t wrong. He passed through towns like a ghost, getting what he needed (or stealing it, on some occasions, some occasions violently) before drifting back into the shadows. The cabin had been a boon (the corpse within it less so), a roof overhead and a bed beneath after so many nights on just a thin blanket over dirt--or a tree branch, if folks after his bounty were too close at hand.

“Now I don’t know what particular life you left behind, and I’m not gonna pry unless you’re willing to share,” Sam said, “but very few folks are cut out for a life as lonesome as that. And it’s plain you ain’t one of ‘em, despite my earlier notions. So you might as well stop pretending and admit that at Rose Creek you regained something you lost, and lost some of it again, and it hurts. Red and I are hurting too, even if not in quite the same way. What matters now is that we’re here for each other, if we so choose.”

Vasquez breathed heavily, taking it all in.

“Did you practice that?” He said.

“Not really. Did it sound practiced?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“A little.”

“Well I meant it.”

“I know.” Vasquez said slowly. “...Thank you. For putting up with me, at least.”

“It ain’t no trouble of mine, providing those guns of yours are aimed away from me.” Sam said, gesturing at the weapons in question. Vasquez chuckled and nodded, staring back out over the stream.

“Fue loco.” He repeated, listening to it bubble and rush past, close enough to drown out the crickets.

“What’s crazy?” Sam asked. Vasquez shifted.

“I did not know what life was gonna be like after…my warrant, but I never expected anything like this.”

Sam’s mouth quirked into a smile.

“Life is funny like that.”

Vasquez chuckled in response; Sam stood up from the rock, with an amicable pat to his shoulder.

“We should get back, Red’s gonna start to worry.” He said. Vasquez nodded, standing up himself and shaking some of the tension from his shoulders. He was about to step down from the rock when Sam gave him pause.

“Oh, and I’m sorry for using your name like that back there. Seemed to be the only way to get your attention. I won’t use it again if you don’t want me to.”

He thought for a moment. It really did feel like walking over his own grave, letting that name out in open air again. Anselmo was a well-meaning, if troublemaking, and a little brash, vaquero. Vasquez…

Vasquez had a long way to go before he was worth having that name again. And as far as he was concerned, he was only continuing on in the opposite direction.

“I would rather you didn’t.” He said.

“Of course. I only know it ‘cause of Goody,” Sam added. So it hadn’t been on his warrant; Ximena had followed through. Gods above, he didn’t deserve her. “He tends to know the names of folks, no matter how they try to hide them. And, well, he’s never been good at keepin’ secrets.”

“‘Tends’?” Vasquez echoed, causing Sam to pause now. Except instead of fidgeting like Vasquez did, he went stiff.

“Tended.” Sam corrected accordingly. “You’ll forgive me...it still is hard to believe a man like him is gone.”

“Hard to believe even the reaper gets reaped.” Vasquez nodded in agreement. He could still remember Sam poring over the body, muttering at it brokenly to get up. For a morbid moment Vasquez wondered what kind of Reapers took their own kind. He sighed.

“If we remember them, they are never truly gone.” He said suddenly, thoughts jumping to marigolds and pan de luz. Días de los Muertos was a long ways off, but maybe a tribute to their fallen brethren would help the three of them grieve. Granted, if they survived till then. Considering the first battle they fought, it didn’t seem likely. Vasquez shuddered.

“That’s some wisdom I can get behind.” Sam smiled.

They made their way back towards camp, in a silence much more comfortable than the one before. Maybe talking like this wasn’t so bad, Vasquez thought. Sam was right--he hated being alone, and this--

A loud, low howl halted him in his tracks, cutting through the forest like a knife. It came from far off, but it dug deep into Vasquez’s bones, so much so he didn’t even hear Sam call his name. He turned on his heel, ears pinpointing the direction of it. It dropped off and picked up again, pulling at one of the holes in his chest, pulling him towards it.

“Vasquez,” Sam shook his shoulder gently, “it’s not him.”

As much as he knew Sam was right, the howl picked up again and he couldn’t help the small “Faraday…” that slipped past his lips.

“He’s gone, Vasquez.” Sam said, shaking him again.

_He’s gone._

_There wasn’t a body to bury, not like Goody’s, not like the others._

_There was enough._

_He couldn’t have made it._

_But._

_But._

“Right.” Vasquez huffed, shaking the thoughts from his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Sam said. “I still react whenever I hear an owl. It’s the associations that get to you.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, turning back around. They continued to walk on, and though the howling continued (and was joined by others--a wolf pack in the mountains they were passing through, then) Vasquez was able to push it to the back of his mind. How a dog would be the one to get his claws in him the deepest, he’d never be able to guess.

“And I’ve talked about this with Red some, but maybe you’ll agree too, there’s an odd feeling that’s been around ever since we left.”

“Other than grief?”

“Yes, other than that.” Sam snorted. “More like a feeling of... _something_.”

“Something? Specific.” Vasquez said sarcastically.

“Are you going to let me finish or not?” Sam snapped. Vasquez laughed more fully, seeing the begrudging smile on Sam’s face. Sam continued regardless.

“Something following us, being _with us_. A presence, if you will.”

“What, like a ghost?” Vasquez frowned.

“I can’t say. I would dismiss it, but Red says he feels it too. If you feel it, let me know. It could be someone we left behind, but it doesn’t necessarily bode well. A ghost, not so bad. A poltergeist? That’s a problem.”

“Poter...a what?”

“ _Poltergeist_ ,” Sam repeated, enunciating for Vasquez’s benefit, “a spirit that lost what made him human--or otherwise. Nothing but wrath and violence. In my experience, most ghosts left unsettled long enough will lose themselves eventually and become poltergeists. You ever hear those legends of the plantations after the war?”

“Sí.”

“Largest amount of poltergeists borne of any war in American history. Folks will be trying to exorcise those things for decades to come.”

“Ah.” Vasquez crossed himself instinctively. “Hope it is not one of those then.”

“Agreed.”

By this point the firelight of the camp was visible from where they were. Reminded of what drove him from the camp in the first place, Vasquez sneered, and veered off to the side he knew Red was on.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Oh nothing. Revenge.” Vasquez shrugged. Sam frowned.

“How many times do I have to tell you two to play nice? I feel like I’m wrangling children.”

“What? No, it’s fine. No harm.” Vasquez scoffed, grinning devilishly. “Just a little revenge. Pequeño.” He pinched his fingers together. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Children.” He repeated, going on to the camp. Vasquez chuckled and turned to continue his trajectory. In two steps he was on the ground in four, fur rippling over his body and clothes melting away. His pace slowed, prowling the underbrush. The silent predator. He could hear the other men as he approached.

Red spoke in Comanche--Vasquez hadn’t picked up enough to understand him just yet, but he heard his own name, and assumed Red asked where he was.

“He’s coming. Just taking a moment to take care of some business.” Sam said cryptically. Vasquez almost purred, thrilled that Sam wasn’t giving him away. He restrained himself and trotted on.

Red and Sam continued to converse, though Vasquez only understood half the conversation and was really more focused on sneaking up on the former conversationalist. He paused at the edge of the camp, directly behind Red, going completely still. When Red and Sam only continued to talk, Vasquez was assured of Red’s unawareness. He stalked forward, one foot in front of the other. Sam wasn’t even looking their way, just fiddling with a cord in his hands. Perfect. Step. Step. Step. He was just behind Red now, holding his breath so absolutely nothing would give him away.

He leaned in just over Red’s shoulder. And roared.

Vasquez had no idea exactly what Red was shouting, but he was pretty sure it was a long string of curse words as the man slapped him away and scrambled out of range. The slap did sting a bit, but it was _so_ worth it. Vasquez began shifting back, feline chuffing softening to human laughter.

“That’s what you get! That’s what you get!” He cackled. Sam was still fiddling with that cord, but Vasquez could hear him sighing.

“Bastard! Bastard!” Red pointed at him emphatically.

“Aw, is that all you can throw at me?”

“Motherfucker!”

Vasquez laughed harder, stumbling over to his bedroll on the other side of the fire. Red dropped back into his seat, still cursing.

“I told you, chillón, I _told you_.” Vasquez said, still riding his mirth. “One day--”

“Shut up.” Red snapped. Vasquez raised his hands in surrender, but his grin didn’t leave his face. Sam sat up straight.

“So. You two even now?” He said. Red turned on him fast.

“You knew he was there!”

“I had no such knowledge.” Sam lied smoothly. “I said he had some business; thought it was the relievin’ kind.”

“Eh, you’re half-right, jefe.” Vasquez broke into another fit of giggles. Red glowered between them.

“Shit.” He pointed to Sam. “Shit.” He pointed to Vasquez. That got the start of a smile out of Sam, but he didn’t quite crack. Finally Red sighed and shook his head, a chagrined smile working its way onto his own face.

All in all, the night ended much nicer than it had started, Vasquez thought. He took comfort, for the first time in a long time, in the knowledge he was among people he could trust. _Really_ trust. And that he’d be with them for a while yet.

Another wolf howl started in the distance. It tugged at him, but it didn’t haunt him as much as before. The holes in his chest left him alone, if just for one moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only the subtlest, abstract references to ocean's 11 in my fanfiction ;)


	3. Past: Faraday

It was a bad idea from the start.

But then again, he had a penchant for bad ideas. It just so happened that this one was a little bit more...painful than usual. It wasn’t like Faraday hadn’t done it before, but this time he had no idea how long he’d be holding off on his shift. So for now, the burning sensation in his bones, like ants crawling up and down under his skin and stinging him as they went, was going to be a constant. He dealt with it as he usually did most of his problems, with a solid haze of booze around him.

But by this point in their ride for Rose Creek, he had run dry. He’d had his last drink right before they called on Jack Horne. He’d been half-tempted to try and raid the man’s house for a bottle, pissed at himself for his shit timing; he couldn’t find an opportunity to slip away from the others, and honestly, after watching that bear of a man lope out of the woods and axe two men down, he was more than discouraged from trying to cross him. He was going to have to deal with the full moon sober.

Dinner was a quiet affair, watching the sun set and the moon rise. That’s when the burning set in deep. His senses heightened to the point where the littlest noises set him on edge, and eventually the smell of beans was just un-fucking-bearable. Thankfully the group didn’t seem to be too chatty, so no one batted an eye when he shifted back from the circle around the fire, and up onto some of the rocks surrounding them. In fact, once he did so, the rest of the group scattered. It was more interesting to watch them than to let his attention linger on the pain of not shifting.

Vasquez had set out his bedroll and all, and seemed dead to the world now. Billy also moved up into the rocks ( _Heh, Rocks_ , Faraday thought), though on the other side of the fire, and high up, as if a lookout. Faraday had no idea what the quiet man was, other than knowing for sure the man wasn’t human, so he wasn’t sure if Billy could actually see out into the dark or not. He smelled like ash, and Faraday noticed that he didn’t use a lighter to light those cigarettes of his and Goody’s--he made the motions well enough to fool most folks, but Faraday had seen it. So whatever it was, fire had something to do with it. Goody and Sam stayed close to the campfire, but he watched Emma move away and to her own sleeping roll. In them, he could sense a tension (well, maybe not in the sleeping Vasquez); Sam controlled his the best, but he knew it was there. The rest would glance at him now and then. They could all see the full moon, and they all knew what he was. It grated against him like nails on a chalkboard, that they just expected him to go wild. _Like a beast_.

All except Teddy. He was the only one who had his back to Faraday, and he never glanced over his shoulder or anything. He was already sitting by his and Emma’s things, almost acting like a guard.

 _Protective kid_ , Faraday thought. Teddy was always by Miss Emma’s side, at her beck and call. He rode behind her to watch her back. He never seemed unfazed, but he was always wary. Faraday always thought anyone with the Sight would be ever confident, knowing the outcome to everything.

 _“It’s not like that_.” _Teddy had told him when he asked. “I don’t know what will happen. I get...senses. Ideas. They’re rarely clear. And they change constantly. It’s easier with people, especially those that are close. I can tell what kind they are. A general idea of their path in life, more if I focus on them for a while.”_

_“Well what’s mine, then?” Faraday asked, “My path?”_

_“Do you really want to know?” Teddy raised an eyebrow at him, face serious. Truth be told, Faraday absolutely did not. They were heading towards a suicide mission. He was a gambler, sure, but even he didn’t want to know the truth to those odds._

_“Nah. Takes all the fun out of it.” He’d said nonchalantly._

Staring at Teddy now, Faraday wondered if he knew Emma’s path, and that’s why he was so protective of her. The thought didn’t bode well. _Still_ , Faraday though, eyes falling onto the kid’s whiskey bottle, right next to his military-issue pistol, _maybe not bad company to have_.

It was easy to get Teddy over to where he was. Throw a rock, ask him about the gun. Faraday could tell before he asked that the kid had never used it before. So he did what any upstanding werewolf needing a helping hand with his shift would do--he swindled the kid for his booze.

Well, it wasn’t a swindle, exactly. At first it was.

“Listen,” He said, after taking a good long swig. Immediately the burn lessened, but he still felt like a livewire. He raised his hands in surrender, “this means: don’t shoot.”

He held back from laughing at Teddy’s face.

“Got it? Now watch this one.” He said, because of course he couldn’t resist pulling out the cards next. He snapped his fingers and flicked one out in his other hand as if from thin air. He didn’t miss the way Teddy was distracted by the finger snap.

“Now lesson two: take this card outta my hand.” Faraday said, “If you take the card you live. If you don’t you die.”

A little reflex game, nothing special. Teddy glanced between him and the card a few times before weakly grabbing for it; Faraday pulled it away easy, shooting Teddy a look.

“Come on, Teddy.” Faraday chided, truly a little disappointed that Teddy wasn’t playing the game. He seemed distracted, and well, that could certainly get him killed on a battlefield, couldn’t it? He was so busy staring off at the future that he could only notice the obvious when dealing with the present. Faraday could help him there, and he got a little excited at the thought. At the distraction, at the _game_. He held out the card. “ _Focus_. You gotta be quick.”

Teddy actually adjusted this time, so he was facing Faraday better. He seemed nervous, quickly averting his gaze when meeting Faraday’s eyes. Faraday was only grinning, jeesh--the kid needed to loosen up. Another couple glances, and Teddy tried again. Faraday flicked the card before he could even touch it.

“You just lost your first gunfight.” He said, flicking the card back out. His heart was picking up speed, his body felt like it was buzzing with electricity. He already had his other hand on his gun. “Try it again.”

The crickets were a roar in his ears. A part of him wanted to keep the back and forth game going, but he saw it in Teddy’s eyes now--he was going to go for it. For real this time. That’s when Faraday had to do it, when the kid was so focused on the damn card he didn’t even notice Faraday unholster Ethel.

Teddy grabbed the card. Faraday aimed the gun at his face.

“Lesson two,” He growled, his voice dropping to an almost inhuman register, “ _it was never about the cards_.”

The tension around the fire shot up so much it nearly made his hackles rise. He heard the click of a gun--Emma’s, not aimed but at the ready--and the eyes of the others all on him. Even Sam had tensed. Glancing at Teddy’s terrified face, he realized what made them so alarmed. No wonder the crickets seemed so loud.

His ears twitched back and forth on their own, furred. His world had gone grey, the telltale sign his eyes had shifted, and they were probably glinting quite fierce in the firelight. With the way his voice dragged in his throat, he wouldn’t be surprised if his teeth had changed too. His heart slammed in his ribcage. He had gotten too excited. He had almost lost control.

He inhaled, he exhaled. He spun his gun and holstered it, shifting away and quickly swiping another swig of whiskey. He mentally willed the wolf in him to calm down.  _The others are right not to trust you_. _You crazy bastard_.

Well, fuck them if they thought he was going to acknowledge that. He’d rather move on like nothing happened.

“Now, I’ll give ya a third lesson,” He said around his swig.

“I think you need that more than I do.” Teddy said, voice wavering only a little. He was no longer afraid, but his usual wariness was back full force. So much for getting through to him. He stood and moved back down the rocks.

“Why don’t you just take the rest Mr. Faraday.” He said sullenly.

“I think I will.” Faraday returned. At least he got one good thing out of it. He tried to ease Emma’s fierce glare with a smile; it didn’t work.

Howls picked up through the canyon as Faraday turned his back away from the fire. They pulled at him, like a fish on a hook. They were probably coyotes, not wolves, but still he had to fight the urge to run off into the night, wild, free, and howling himself. He downed half the bottle in one go.

“You want to be with them, sí?” If he hadn’t been so focused on keeping himself contained, he probably would have heard the Mexican climbing up the rocks. Frowning, Faraday took another drink.

“Don’t you know curiosity killed the cat?” He griped. Vasquez smiled lazily.

“Sí, but satisfaction brought it back, no?” He sat down next to him, eyes glinting in the firelight. He was some sort of shifter like Faraday himself, he was sure of it, but he had never heard of no werecat before. But it had to be, since the scent hung around him like a second skin. He didn’t seem to be having any problems with the full moon, however.

“What kind of satisfaction you lookin’ for? If it’s a good drink you can kindly fuck off. This here is mine, fairly won.” Faraday tried to keep his tone neutral, but didn’t really succeed.

“Sure.” Vasquez scoffed. Perhaps he hadn’t been as dead to the world as Faraday thought he was. “Are you really as much of a drunk irishman as he says you are--” he jerked his head in Goody’s direction “--to swindle a kid out of a drink, or are you using it to hold back?”

“Don’t really see how it’s any of your business, _cam-paw-dray_.” Faraday intentionally butchered the word (more than he already would have slurred it by this point, the alcohol starting to kick in).

“Just wondering.” The outlaw shrugged.

“You can go wonder somewhere else.” Faraday retorted bitterly. “Why are you even over here anyway? Or have you not noticed the general consensus to avoid touching me with a ten-foot pole, if that.”

“Maybe that is why I’m over here.” Vasquez shot back. After a moment, he shrugged again.

“I’ve never met a lobo before. I’ve only ever heard stories.” He admitted. At Faraday’s confused look: “A fur.”

“Never met--well ain’t it your lucky night.” Faraday growled, happy to let go a little. He’d love to wipe that unbothered look off of Vasquez’s face, even if it meant risking his control. “I could give you a demonstration right now, show you the real deal.”

Vasquez was in no way affected. Faraday knew he could see him, with those weird cat eyes of his, but he was still as relaxed and confident as before. It only pissed Faraday off more.

“You won’t.” The outlaw said simply. “I want to know why.”

“I thought it was obvious.” Faraday huffed. He was met with silence. He tried not to growl again. “We might need the extra power in a fight.”

He neglected to mention that changing now in such close proximity to the others--even if he were to run off into the night--would only make them prey.

“No faith we can handle it without a wolf?” Vasquez raised an eyebrow at him.

“Call it hedging my bets.” Faraday met his gaze levelly. His tone was pointed. “Especially since our merry band seems a little small, not to mention _tame_.”

“What, you think I cannot hold my own in a fight?” Vasquez challenged. Faraday smirked.

“If all you’ve got going for you are freaky lil’ eyes that help you in the dark, then you shouldn’t be surprised that I’m thinkin’ it.” He said.

The other man glowered at him for a moment, but it melted away into a threatening grin.

“I have more than just the eyes, _guero_.”

In the faint light from the fire, Faraday watched Vasquez’s silhouette shift. The shoulders grew, his head changed. He could make out fur and whiskers, and he was pretty sure the outlaw’s fur was spotted, like some kind of jungle cat. He glanced down and saw that Vasquez’s legs were still human—he had only partially shifted. Which only confirmed exactly what Faraday was looking for.

“So you _can_ bring the cat out and put him away whenever you please.” He glared at Vasquez, unable to hide his bitterness. He took another swig. “Ain’t that just _peachy keen_.”

In seconds Vasquez had shifted back, expression slack. It quickly changed to one of chagrin, having walked right in to Faraday’s setup. He couldn’t tell if the outlaw was huffing or growling, but he shook his head and shifted away from Faraday. Faraday could honestly not give a damn about the tension between them now. Vasquez was the one who insisted on the conversation.

“It is dangerous, isn’t it?”

And insisted on continuing the conversation.

“I’ve heard stories. Men who try to cage the wolf, only to have the wolf break free and cage the man.”

“How poetic.” Faraday deadpanned.

“Is it true?”

Faraday side-eyed the outlaw.

“I’ve heard stories.” He said. Vasquez huffed and mumbled something in spanish. Probably an insult.

“Still, it hurts, no?” He asked after a pause. “That’s why you drink--keep the wolf dumb and the pain low?”

“Huh, I think that rhymed.” Faraday snickered. Vasquez only stared at him blankly. And he wouldn’t stop staring. Faraday ran his tongue over his teeth, ignoring their sharpness, and swallowed a growl.

“Is there a point to all of this questionin’?” He said. “‘Cause I’d appreciate it if you meowed your way to it.”

“Drinking so much won’t do you any good in a fight.” Vasquez said bluntly.

“Shows what you know.” Faraday spat, bristling. Just to spite the other man, he took several large gulps in one breath. Which, well, wasn’t the smartest idea. He wiped his mouth when he was done. “I could prove it to you right fucking now, meowchacho.”

Vasquez growled in turn, but he seemed to keep his cool.

“I’m just saying, there are other ways to fight the wolf.” He gritted. “One that will not put the rest of us at risk.”

“And how would you fucking know?” Faraday returned, glowering at the man. “You’re the one who’s never met a fur before.”

“No, but I know what it is like. The fight for control.”

“I really don’t think you do.”

“And I can help with it.” Vasquez ignored him. “I have magic that can help with the pain, at least.”

“Of fucking course.” Faraday sat back against the rock, head tipping up to look at the sky. He couldn’t make out any of the stars, though he should have been able to. His eyes had changed again. Eyes were always the hardest to control. Some old saying about them being the windows to the soul or some shit. He tipped the bottle back and finished the rest of it. By this point he’d had enough to send him into blissful, dreamless sleep, once a certain outlaw left him the fuck alone.

“If you want--”

“Unless your magic involves detaching “the wolf” from the goddamn moon, much like your little puss, you can kindly fuck off.” Faraday cut him off, much crueler than before. “I ain’t about to start taking advice from the likes of _you_ , dayshifter.”

Faraday didn’t look over at Vasquez, but he could sense the man was dumbfounded, and felt a little pride at getting one over him. There was a pregnant pause, and then what sounded like the start of another growl. It was stifled, but mostly from Vasquez abruptly standing and kicking at him. It wasn’t a hit, just enough to send some rock and sand at Faraday, and then the outlaw turned on his heel and stormed back towards the fire, grumbling all the while.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Faraday taunted. “Just meow away, lil’ kitty. Meow meow meow meow meow.”

Vasquez spit at the ground, but otherwise didn’t respond. He went back over to his bedroll and plopped right back down, pulling his hat down and hunching his shoulders, crossing his arms. Faraday watched as slowly the tension in the other man eased, and with his senses heightened he could hear when he started snoring. Damn, he fell asleep fast. The lucky bastard. Jealousy roiled in Faraday’s stomach. Or maybe it was the booze and the beans.

That had to be at least three people in this group now who no longer trusted him in _any_ capacity. Faraday tried to convince himself it was better this way, settling down against the rocks, not bothering with a blanket.

Better they keep the wild beast at a distance, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faraday is 20% luck, 10% alcohol problems, (in this universe) 40% dog, and 30% bull-headed spite
> 
> And Vasquez I would say is about 75% cat, 15% desperation for companionship, and 10% gun


	4. Present: Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhjgjg I thought I would finish the 6th chapter tonight, but I have not, so here are the next two chapters anyways! I'll post chapter 6 as soon as I can :)

The first few hours were hazy. As far as rebirths went, he could probably rank it as one of the worst. It was painful, and suffocating--he was pretty sure it actually was _two_ rebirths. Two bouts of burning up and reforming before he managed to survive long enough to claw his way up from the dirt. And because of that complication his wounds from his initial death hadn’t healed properly (not to mention all the goddamn _formaldehyde_ in his body), which just made it so much more agonizing. Oh, and then he had been shot. Just to top it off. At least he was still rapidly healing at the time, and he was able to heal that along with every other bullet hole in his body.

    If Billy had been conscious enough he would have yelled at whoever thought to bury _him_ , of all people, but the mess of dirt and smoke and dying twice over disoriented him. Normally after something like that, he would rely on Goody to ground him, to keep him safe while he settled.

    But there had been no Goody. Only yelling. So much goddamn _yelling_. And then hands, all over him, pulling, digging. He fought them at first, but his fire was still weak, and either way, a familiar voice pierced through it all:

    “Dammit, Billy, we’re trying to help you. You can’t just sit dumb in your own grave.”

    It wasn’t Goody, but it was something. After that he stopped fighting. That wasn’t to say he helped much, either. The same Billy might have been inside, but the outside was all new, and as ungainly as a newborn calf. They got him to his feet, and something around his waist, but he could hardly stand on his own, much less walk. Not for lack of trying; he took one step and his knees gave out. There were distinctly fewer hands that caught him this time.

    “I can handle him from here, Miss Emma.”

    “I got ‘im, it’s fine.”

    Emma. The familiar voice. And the other, the other was too but he couldn’t remember the name.

    “He’s naked, it’s--”

    “Improper? Have I been proper as of late?” Emma retorted. “If you’re gonna help, fine. Help me get him to the nearest barn. These wings of his will have space in there.”

    There was another flurry of voices, too much for Billy to understand. They were argumentative, but Emma seemed to win the argument, because the next thing he knew her and Teddy--Teddy, that was it--were helping him along. He blinked and suddenly there wasn’t grass beneath his feet, but dirt, and eyes boring into him from everywhere. He blinked again and suddenly there was nothing but hay. Hay and quiet. Quiet was good, quiet let him process.

“If these burned proper they would have caught the grass outside, so he should be alright here.” He heard Emma say. He heard rustling. “Lay him here.”

He was guided down on to something soft, but lumpy. He instinctively rolled over so he wouldn’t crush his wings. He wanted to speak, to figure out what was going on, but apparently whatever he was lying on was soft enough to lull him into rest. Not sleep, he was still too sore for that, but rest.

He heard distant yelling, and closer sighs.

“That would be Howards,” Teddy said. “He’ll put up a fight to keeping Mr. Rocks here.”

There was a brief pause, and then:

“No no, I’ll go talk to him. He’s more likely to listen to me than to you. And Mr. Rocks knows you better than he knows me.”

Footsteps. A large door being opened and shut. The yelling quieting down. Marginally. Something--someone--Emma--sat in the hay next to him.

“Billy?” she asked. “You awake?”

He gave a vague mumble in response. He shifted to be more comfortable in the hay, but let his eyes stay shut. He was still too weak to hide them completely, and keeping them open would probably alarm Emma more than she already was.

“...I’m sorry for shooting you.” She said. Damn right she should be sorry for shooting him--they should be sorry for burying him! The irritation at that resurfacing, Billy shifted onto his forearms and forced himself to speak more coherently.

“Why’d you fucking bury me?”

There was a long pause. “...Huh?”

    “I died twice because of you idiots.” Billy slurred, letting his head drop back down to the blanket. The pain was finally ebbing, and keeping his eyes shut meant sleep had an easier time pulling at him proper. “Didn’t Goody tell you that?”

    “Billy, I don’t understand a word you’re saying...uh…”Goody”? Are you talking about Goody?”

    “Yes I--fuck.” Billy cut off with a curse. He was so tired he hadn’t even noticed he was speaking Cantonese. For a moment, he debated actually putting in the effort to wake up and speak English. But sleep pulled at him, and he’d really rather rest for a bit; either way, Goody had to know what was going on by now. He’d be there soon, and he’d take care of the confusion. He managed to wave a dismissing hand in Emma’s direction.

    “Just get Goody. He’ll help. I’m gonna sleep.” Billy mumbled (still in Cantonese, mind you). He settled back into the hay until he was comfy, and true to his word, he slept.

    And when he awoke, it was past sunset. The only light in the barn came from a couple lanterns hanging throughout and his own wings.

He stretched them out, extending them fully and listening to the joints pop. He gave a few experimental flaps, yawning as he did. He was feeling a lot better, or at least, he was less sore than earlier. And now that pain wasn’t at the forefront of his mind, he could try and put his memories back together.

There was gunfire. Lots of it. All around him, all... _through_ him. So that was how he died. Funny, the memory of his death was usually the last to come back to him...Goody was there. The memory was hazy, but Billy focused on it enough to finally recognize Goody, jerking back from the force of a bullet, in the belltower of the church.

So he was injured. That would explain why he wasn’t here, by Billy’s side. Even Reapers could struggle with a bullet or two, Billy had learned. Nowhere near enough to take them down, but enough to knock them out of commission for a short while. Once he was properly clothed he would go find Goody.

Billy readjusted the blanket wrapped around his hips. He wasn’t keen on leaving the barn in just this, now that he had his dignity and wits about him. Glancing around, he found a small pile of clothes not far away, and a plate of food and drink on a crate right next to it. His stomach growled at the sight, and he figured giving in to his stomach wouldn’t be a bad idea either. Someone must have seen to him--Emma, probably.

As he got dressed (the clothes fit decently enough, but they weren’t his) and ate he worked on piecing everything else together: being approached a by a Fur—a branded _and_ registered one at that—and a Psychic, on behalf of none other than Sam Chisholm; the other men, adding to their group as they went, none of them, Billy noted, human, save for Miss Emma, and Teddy, technically; fighting off the Blackstone men; training and preparing for the final confrontation. Billy smiled at the memory of their round tables, Faraday and his guns, Red Harvest for certain mouthing off in Comanche but Sam translating only polite conversation. The smile faded as more memories filed in. Goody shifty, nervous, after training one day. The next, he was completely avoiding Billy, even when they slept. The Owl. That damn fucking owl. Goody leaving. Billy drinking. Billy remembered, for the first time in a long time, longer than even Goody’s company, carrying _fear_ into the dawn of that fight. The flask heavy in his pocket, like a talisman, like a _prayer_.

But then Goody came back. Billy could have lit that belltower on fire he was so thrilled when Goody climbed up into it. The relief, the joy, the manic glee of the past helped calm him now, reassure him that everything would be alright.

His fingers danced over the phantom scar of a bullet wound, one of many. As alright as it could be. Who knew the damage suffered by this town. He didn’t even know if any of the others were alive. He remembered Faraday riding out towards the gatling gun, Goody’s expression already resigned even as he cheered the man on. The others were all on the ground, he didn’t remember seeing them before the rain of bullets that took his life. Wait. Rain...it had been the gatling gun to take him out. If so, then wouldn’t Goody have been hit--

“You’re awake. That’s good.”

Billy had been so focused on remembering (and eating) he didn’t even hear Emma slide open the barn door. She stood in the doorway hesitantly, and it wasn’t until Billy nodded in greeting that she entered.

Emma Cullen looked far more tired now than he had ever seen her before. She had deep bags under her eyes, and her clothes were dirt-stained and a little ragged, as if she’d been working non-stop. She probably had been, helping the town to recover.

“Do you understand me?” She asked. The withering look Billy shot her over his plate of food was enough for her to huff a laugh.

“Just had to make sure. You were really out of it before.”

“Yes, digging yourself out of a grave is harder than it looks.” He said bluntly. At that she shuffled her feet, looking away.

“Sorry.” She said. “We didn’t know.”

“Didn’t I--no, I said--” He fumbled for a moment. He hadn’t told a single soul what he really was; so much of his life was spent hiding just to protect himself that talking about it was like pulling teeth. He had learned how to live and fight as if he wasn’t dark folk just to hide better. Hell, it had taken years for him to admit the truth to Goody (of course, only to learn the Reaper knew anyhow, just too polite to say anything, but that was a different matter). “Goody should have told you.” He settled on sheepishly.

Now she was avoiding his gaze for an entirely different reason. Perhaps she was worried about his reaction to hearing that Goody wasn’t up and about.

“He is recovering still, then? I remember him getting hurt.” Billy said, shrugging and continuing to eat. Emma struggled to form a response. He noticed her mannerisms were still hesitant: she was keeping her distance, hands twisting in her shawl, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“It’s been three weeks, and no one had any idea you’d come back. Chisholm and Vasquez and Red Harvest rode out pretty much the same day, so we really had nothing to go on about burial, and--”

“What are you not telling me?” Billy said, able to hide his alarm at the amount of time that had passed, if only because it was overwhelmed by the dread at the fact that Emma had avoided his question about Goody. In the back of his mind he heard the rattling hellfire of the gatling gun.

She finally looked him in the eyes, and under the pinpoints of menacing fire her resolve crumbled.

“I--he--there wasn’t any--” She swallowed, regaining herself. “I’m. I’m sorry Billy. Goodnight...Goodnight didn’t make it.”

Billy shook his head firmly. “Not possible.”

“He ain’t here, is he?” Emma retorted.

“He is a reaper. He cannot die.” Billy returned, desperately ignoring how his stomach refused to stop flipping.

“Billy he got hit by so many bullets he got knocked clean out of the belltower!” Emma said, words sharp. Her fire had returned, but only briefly. It was swallowed by some dark memory. “If the bullets didn’t kill him, the...the broken neck did.”

_“Goody…” His dying breath, spoken to the empty spot where Goody had been standing, where wood had cracked and snapped and now only his flask remained._

“You’re wrong.” Billy shook his head, glaring at Emma across the barn. She glared right back.

“Sam made us swear up and down to hold off on burying him for a week. You know what happened? His body started to _rot_.” She spat.

“ _Shut up_!” Billy jerked to his feet, plate clattering across the ground. His wings flared out from his back; the heat blast was so strong Emma stumbled.

“ _You’re wrong_.” He snarled, storming towards the barn doors. “I’ll prove it.”

“How!?” Emma quickly got between him and the doors. “He’s been buried for some good two weeks now, he’s not coming back! Billy stop!”

“You’re wrong.” Billy tried to push past her, but she pushed right back, not budging. He tried to dodge around her but she followed him step for step.

“Billy, the town’s already in an uproar over you coming back, they’ll riot if you go back out there with a shovel.”

“ _I don’t care_.” He tried to move past her again.

“Goddammit listen to yourself!” Emma grabbed his vest lapels and shook him. ”Goodnight is dead! You ain’t gonna find nothin’ but bones if you dig up that grave. Stop denying it, you’re only making it worse!”

“ _Let go of me_ .” Billy growled, smoke seeping past his lips. Rage (not grief _not grief)_ made his fire easy to summon, wrapping around his hands as he wrapped his hands around hers.

But she didn’t let go. He _knew_ he was burning her and she didn’t let go. She stared right back into his eyes with understanding and pain and no fear at all and gods he was acting like a fool.

“He’s dead, Billy.” She gritted through her teeth, shaking him again. He fought weakly, but she only shook him more. “Goodnight’s dead. He’s gone. _He’s gone_.”

 _He’s gone_.

 _“Mon cher, mon ange_. _”_ _Fingers gracing over his bare shoulders, words murmured in the dark. The one man who could keep up with him, who would still be there decades later, when Billy had long since lost everyone else_.

 _Gone_.

    Billy wasn’t sure which happened first: he fell to his knees or he started honest to god _crying_. Either way, Emma was there to catch him, and he clung to her as his shoulders heaved.

    “It’s okay, it’s okay,” She murmured, pulling him close, petting his hair. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

    Normally Billy wouldn’t let anyone touch him like this, or even see him like this--unless it was Goody. But Goody wasn’t here anymore. This was all he had.

    It felt like drowning. He couldn’t breathe, he was tossed adrift. A plaintive wail broke out of his throat, and he clawed at Emma’s arms as if it could bring any relief to the pain. This was worse than dying twice over in his grave. This felt like dying a third, agonizing time.

    _How stupid,_ He tried to war with his own grief, _you knew him for what? Seven years?_

Nine and eight months, to be exact.

    _That’s nothing to you. Barely a hiccup in time. You’ve lived for far longer on your own._

    _But Goody was never supposed to leave. Goody isn’t...wasn’t nothing._

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, in Emma’s arms, pouring his grief out. But eventually he managed to calm, somewhat. Maybe he hadn’t stopped crying, but he wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

    He could hear Emma’s heartbeat, a steady thrum, a rhythm to breathe to. He could feel the heat in her hands, and shame curled up right next to his grief. He took his emotions out on her, and she was the last person who deserved it. Sitting up and away from her, he took her red, burned hands and raised them up to his face. He didn’t remember the last time he cried, but if the tears were here now he could at least put them to use. Emma resisted his hold ever so slightly, but Billy pulled until she was cupping his face. The effect was immediate; a gentle hissing steam rose from where skin met skin. Emma gasped, so shocked she nearly recoiled, but Billy kept her hands still until the hissing died down. When he let go she took her hands back, examining them, fascinated.

    “Your tears can…” She looked up at him. Billy nodded.

    “I’m sorry for burning you.” His voice was hoarse.

    “I shot you earlier, I guess it makes us even.” She shrugged, giving him a wary smile. Her words only sent Billy’s thoughts down a darker path. He wiped at his still falling tears, watching how his fingers glistened with them.

    “I could have…” His chest heaved, and tears threatened to spill over again, “if I had lasted longer, I could have--”

    “You don’t know what you could have done.” Emma took his hand in hers, so he couldn’t look at his tears. “Believe me, I relive Matthew’s death every night, and every night I try to find a way to save him. But the past is the past--we can’t change it.”

    Billy had almost forgotten that she had lost someone too, in all of this. He sniffed and wiped his nose and mouth on his sleeve. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

    “Do you want water--oh, you spilled it.” Emma glanced over his shoulder at where his food and cup lay knocked over on the ground. Her hand flitted to a flask at her hip. “I’ve got whiskey?”

    “You drink whiskey?” Billy glanced down at the flask. He hardly ever remembered her carrying one around before. He wondered what happened to Goody’s flask. He shook his head.

    “No thanks.” He said. Emma shrugged.

    “Did you eat enough?” She asked. Billy nodded. It would be enough for now; his appetite wasn’t even there to begin with anymore.

    “What happened to the others?” He asked. “Who else survived?”

    “Of you?” She sighed. “Sam; Vasquez; Red Harvest. Jack Horne got taken down by Denali. Faraday…” She swallowed, closing her eyes as if to block out another unpleasant image, “he blew up the gatling gun.”

    Well, he did say he always wanted to blow something up.

    “And the town?”

    “We’re doing our best. We lost a lot of good men that day. Recovery’s been slow, but we’re getting there.” Emma said.

    “And I think they do not want my kind around.” Billy said, slowly getting to his feet. He was already planning ahead, because it was better than letting his grief linger.

    “Don’t worry about them, I’ll keep ‘em in line. “ Emma shook her head, smiling wryly. “Stay as long as you need to.”

    “Thank you, but no.” Billy dusted off his clothes. “Four is better than three--I’ll go after the others. Do you know where they were headed?”

    “Not exactly, no. I know they were heading north when they left. North north-east, into the mountains. I don’t think they were going to cross into Nevada, but that’s the direction.” Emma said, standing up herself.

    “And my horse?”

    “I’ve been taking care of him, along with the others, with Teddy’s help.” Emma nodded. She paused. “You can’t be planning to head out so soon.”

    “If not tonight then tomorrow morning.” Billy said. “I can’t...I’m sorry, I can’t stay here.”

    He couldn’t place the emotions flitting across Emma’s face, but she nodded.

    “I understand.” She said. “We--I think we kept some of your things. You’d have to ask at the inn; if not there the grocer’s, they might not have been sold off yet--not your knives,” She said hurriedly, at Billy’s offended look, “we buried you with those. If they survived your fire then they should still be in your grave.”

    They had survived much more than that; Billy would have to grab them on his way out then, them and his hairpin.

    “If you’re staying the night, you could stay in the inn, or with me. Your choice, but either way you might have to...uh, hide your wings.” Emma said, eyeing the wings in question. “Are they...are they really fire?”

    “They can be.” Billy said. He folded them in, closed his eyes, and took a few deep, steadying breaths. He cleared his mind, and with it his wings, glamour sliding over them like water. When his eyes opened their light was gone, casting the barn into further darkness. He could feel their weight on his back, but to this world, they no longer existed.

“And your eyes—but eyes are harder, I’ve heard.”

“They take more focus.” Billy shook his head. “Don’t have any right now.”

“I can understand that.”

“And...it would be improper, to stay with you--” Billy started.

“I’ve hardly been proper as of late. You staying will hardly be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.” Emma scoffed. At Billy’s questioning look, she didn’t elaborate, only saying: “If you want proper privacy, you should stay with me.”

The stares of the people at the inn were something he didn’t think he could bear right now. He nodded.

“Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Emma turned towards the doors, motioning for him to follow. Her voice was somber.

“You gave your life for this town, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Dead Husbands Club, Billy :,)


	5. Past: Goodnight

“Will you be alright?” Billy had muttered to him, as they trailed behind the Fur and the Psychic that had sought them out. The psychic was hunched over awkwardly as the drunken fur whooped and teased. Though Goody had originally been endeared to Faraday’s boisterous, wickedly cheerful personality, it had quickly gone sour. Joshua obviously struggled with the wolf inside him what with the full moon coming on in the next day or two, and the wolf could only be boozed for so long before it broke free. For now, it simply made the man irritating at best and reckless at worst. He had nearly fallen off his horse twice now.

    “Will _I_ be alright?” Goody echoed, glancing between their new friends and Billy. His companion, for once, did not return the sentiment. He actually looked concerned.

    “We’re heading towards a fight.” Billy said pointedly. “Will you be alright?”

    “Right as rain, darlin’.” Goody said with an easy smile. Billy didn’t believe him. He didn’t even have to say it out loud.

    “It won’t be the same.” He insisted. “It’s been years, and the situation is entirely different. Besides, I can’t turn Sam down.”

    “Of course you can’t.” Billy snorted.

    “Come on now, he’s the closest friend I have after you. I owe him too much to say no.”

    “I’m not arguing you.” The man set his jaw and looked ahead. Goody grinned.

“Is that jealousy I detect, mon ange?”

“Please. How could I be jealous?” Billy’s mouth twitched up, the closest thing to a smile Goody could get while in the company of others. “I’m better looking.”

Goody laughed full-throated, leaning back in the saddle. Those moments when Billy’s pride shone through his otherwise secretive demeanor, those were Goody’s favorite. Unfortunately he laughed so loud he grabbed the attention of Theodore and Joshua.

“Like a couple a school girls, you two are.” Faraday mumbled. He called out: “What are you two gigglin’ about back there?”

“Embroidery and etiquette.” Goody retorted. “School girl things you wouldn’t understand, I’m afraid.”

Faraday seemed about to challenge that, but shook his head and turned back around. Teddy stared at them for a bit longer. He wasn’t one to trust easily or leave well enough alone, that kid. Everyone was a puzzle to figure out. He met Billy’s eyes for a brief second; Billy cleared his throat and Teddy flinched, looking away. A quick look told Goody that his partner had flashed those fiery eyes of his.

“Don’t scare the poor man.” He sidled up next to Billy and elbowed him.

“It’s rude to stare.” Billy shrugged. Goody chuckled and began to pull away, when suddenly Billy grabbed his arm, keeping him there.

“ _Will you be alright?_ ” He repeated, eyes burning straight through to Goody’s soul.

“I’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise.” Goody flashed him his most winning smile. It didn’t seem to be what Billy wanted to hear. He shook his head and pulled away, kicking his horse into a proper trot. Goody clucked his tongue exasperatedly.

“We’re serving a higher cause here, Billy. What could go wrong?”

It turned out plenty of things could go wrong. Not the plan to enter town, no, that went off almost without a hitch. The “almost”, of course, was contingent on Goody. Because it was Goody that went wrong. He always seemed to go wrong.

It was different when it was Billy in a ring. As soon as Arcade had said “for real”, Goody could see his soul’s end, in less than a minute, simple as that. No blood on his hands, the man signed up for it. So had the Pigeon Brothers--hell, they were dead men walking. Goody hadn’t expected their end to be quite so...brutal, but he knew it was coming just the same. On all three occasions he’d cut their souls loose before they’d even realized what happened. The natural pathways of life.

But this. This was chaos. The first men to fall, from Red Harvest’s knife and arrow, Goody had seen the end of their souls and reaped them easily. But in the tense silence that followed any sense of control and natural happenings crashed out the window. Goody could hardly process the changes in lifelines he saw, everyone’s were varying so rapidly in that one deep collective breath before all hell broke loose.

Gunfire, so much gunfire. Bullets that missed, bullets that _didn’t_ , souls flying up one after the other. He tried to pull back, keep his energies focused on the team. He thought he saw Faraday’s lifeline cut off--only for it to resume after a shot from Sam. Lifelines, friend or foe, _warped_ around Joshua, in tune with the man’s excited snarlings; the hungry wolf coming too close to the surface. Anselmo and Red Harvest had such uncanny aim, lifelines would come to a visible end several seconds before they were actually killed, as soon as they fell into the mens’ sights. The sound of Billy’s knives cut ( _Ha!_ , he thought, almost hysterically) through the air, but they weren’t the comfort they usually were. Didn’t matter if Billy’s lifeline would restart if and whenever it ended, there was still too much around him. Too much blood. Too much death.

_“You weren’t meant for this.” The valkyrie told him, standing over the corpse of General Kerney. Her eyes weren’t accusatory, hell, not even disappointed. Somber, like she knew what was coming. He didn’t._

_“I’m meant for whatever I say I’m meant for.” He spat, young and fiery and not yet understanding the price of what he was doing. Of what he’s done. All that matters is the power._ He _knows who will live and who will die._ He _is the final say in the matter_. He _knows which souls are his._

And he could do it again. Have the final say, keep his people alive, make sure the others got dead. Goody took aim with his rifle. _It would be so easy. Call him back, send him out--_

Goody hissed the thought away like a frightened animal, stumbling into the road. More gunfire. More yells. More souls flying loose into the sky. He kept shuffling backwards. He snarled. Disoriented. Wild. _Which war is it now, boy?_

Men ran towards him, fell before they arrived but not by his hand. _Not by my hand. It’s not me. Natural pathways, natural pathways._

His breath came in shallow gasps. Theirs didn’t. No, he’s only known two people who could do that after taking a bullet. He couldn’t see Billy from where he was, couldn’t sense his soul, if it was alive or ended. He couldn’t pick any of the souls that now infected the streets apart from each other, they all blended together, swirling through the streets like water in a flood. Coming to drown him. Too much. Too much.

The clatter of hooves and a shout behind him snapped him out of it. One of the Blackstone men on horseback, trying to make his escape. If word got to Bogue too quickly they’d be fucked. Goody had to take him down. No one else was close enough. No one else had the aim. No one else could _see_ the man’s lifeline. Goody squeezed his eyes shut, feeling them fade. _Just one. I have to._

No one else saw it, the indescribable little thing, how fluid it was in his mind’s eye as clear as the man was in his rifle sights. It all depended on his choice. His shot. It was his power. He swallowed.

“C’mon, shoot.” A voice, over his shoulder. “Take the shot.”

Joshua. He couldn’t see it. The blood, the death, sure, but the true carnage he had wrought--sure he held the power, taking another man’s life always had a degree of power to it, but this was different. He couldn’t _guarantee_ it. Take that lifeline in his hands and _rip_ it.

“Take that shot.” Joshua’s voice rose. He didn’t understand. “Take the damn shot!”

For the first time, Goody actually noticed his heartbeat. Drumming in his chest, kicking like a jackrabbit. In the space of a single speeding heartbeat, he saw it. Far off in one of the trees. The flash of bloodsoaked red. Dripping feathers. Staring. Waiting. It scooped everything in him out and made him hollow, exposing the core of himself. His heartbeat kicked up from his chest to his throat.

He couldn’t let that core see the light again.

The man rode out of his range. The flash of red was gone. He inhaled. He lowered his gun. He exhaled. _It’s not me_. He turned and faced Joshua, but he didn’t really process the man’s anger and confusion, or his glinting, yellow eyes, only his lifeline, thrumming bright and strong and steadily onwards. He could just as easily rip his lifeline too.

“Give me that.” Billy was there in an instant, his lifeline mercifully as strong and continuous as Joshua’s. It wasn’t much of a fight to take Goody’s rifle, he was holding onto it so weakly. Goody wondered if anyone else could pick out the heat radiating off the man, warping the air like it always did when Billy came out of a big fight. Everything else about him was cool: his expression, his brusque mannerisms. That wasn’t a good thing. Something was wrong.

_Goody_ was wrong.

“It’s jammed.” Billy said, turning on his heel and walking back down the street, keeping the rifle with him. Goody glanced at Faraday, already knowing the man wouldn’t believe that for shit. He received a low growl in response, the wolf having made itself known in the fervor of battle; Joshua was in some aggressive, hybrid state. Not his problem, Goody hurriedly moved on, trailing after Billy. Bodies littered the street, souls littered the air. He had work to do. Didn’t make it any easier to ignore Joshua's judging stare.

As the seven of them grouped up in the center of town, Sam called out.

“How’d you do?”

“I got five.” Billy answered. Sam turned, and met Goody’s eyes--he must have seen it, hell he probably knew what would happen before they’d even walked into town. But there was no reaction, no response. He simply said “I got six.” before moving on. As the others counted off, Billy got his attention.

“Hey.” He offered the rifle. Goody reached for it, and in the same moment both of them noticed the blood on Goody’s hand. Taking the rifle with his clean hand, he eyed the bloody one. Now that he thought about it, his wrist stung, all the way up to his shoulder. He had just been too far gone to realize he’d even been hit. He turned away from Billy’s alarmed look. He had work to do.

The souls in town were floating, some hovering above their old bodies, others shifting along, confused. A few were angry--Goody took them first, lest they became too lost to even reap. He was almost distracted by the cat and dog tiff over kills (he wasn’t sure still if he thought Anselmo and Joshua’s fighting was hilariously ironic or irritatingly ridiculous), but he was able to pull the souls that lay behind them both, cut them loose and send them on.

“Are you alright?” Billy asked. Goody was still too focused on the souls around them to even respond more than a vague nod. He’d deal with his wrist later. He hardly paid attention to what Sam was saying to the man that tried to call himself sheriff. That is, until:

“Lincoln, like the president.” Sam said. “Say it.”

“Lincoln, like the president.” The man repeated.

“That’s right. Lincoln, Kansas.”

_Goddamn_ , Goody thought. _This really is revenge_.

And then Sam sent the former sheriff on his way. At least Goody didn’t have to feel so bad now that he let one man slip by, but of course that meant they had little time before Bogue arrived. _You’d better know what you’re doing, Sam_.

    “Are you taking care of this?” Sam muttered under his breath to him, as if on cue.

    “It’d be remiss of me not to.” Goody replied in equal quietness. “Consider it done.”

    Sam nodded, turning his focus to what Faraday was saying. Goody did as well; it was past midday but not too late, and while he was sure he had taken every soul he’d have to walk through town to make sure. There’d be time for that later, after asserting the location of the townsfolk.

    Miss Cullen was the one to bring them all out, her and Teddy. She was a fiery woman, Emma, and Goody could see why she had been able to rope in Sam for this job so easily. She had the same force of will he did, and Goody would be lying if he said he didn’t admire it. Still, the town was divided, it seemed, and there was an even mix of dissent and support. But Sam gave them his speech, they heard his piece, and that was that. Goody turned to talk to Billy as the town dispersed. But there was only empty air--Billy had gone off after Sam, not saying a word. Goody sighed. He was going to catch hell from Billy later.

    He was able to break away from the group at least, and meander through town. It was a quaint, quiet place. It didn’t deserve to be assaulted the way it had, and the way it would be. Picking up the faint hint of a soul, he followed the trail down the main street up to the burnt carcass of the church. The trail veered left, to the cemetery. This didn’t surprise Goody--reapers out west tended to be more nomadic, passing through towns to pick up what was there and moving on, which meant it could have been months since the last collection--except for the fact that there was only one soul there.

    And, as Goody approached the gates, it didn’t belong to the man that had fallen right outside them.

    “Huh, you’re not Blackstone.” He said. The soul flickered and jumped in the air, startled that it had been seen, and weaved rapidly between the gravestones until it was “hidden” behind one. Goody chuckled.

    “No no, there’s no hiding from me.” He said, tugging it back out into the open. “You’re a mischievous one, aren’t you? Must have sneaked by the last reaper to come through.”

    Now in the open and under Goody’s stare, the soul began to take shape. A man, a fairly young one at that. He was resisting, making it hard for Goody to see who he truly was, but it was a futile endeavor. Goody would know it all in the end.

    “And dark folk to boot, no wonder you’re so tricky.” Goody’s eyebrows rose. Aside from the seven, he hadn’t sensed any other dark folk in the entire town. Humans tended to group together like that, viewing most other dark folk as too dangerous to include out on the frontier. He smiled sympathetically.

    “Did they find you out?” He asked. “No one ever really cares to differentiate between a daywalker and a fang, especially out here.”

The soul shook his head and pointed to something over Goody’s shoulder. He didn’t speak. The dead never did.

“Who are you pointing at?” Goody tried to follow the soul’s direction; it seemed to be the saloon. From this distance, he couldn’t make out much, but he knew it was where Sam and the others were likely getting lodging arranged. That or already planning their next move. He sighed and turned back around.

“Look, if this is some sort of vengeful affair, I can’t help you Matthew…” Goody trailed off, recognizing the name as it finally came to him, “...Cullen.”

Emma’s husband.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Goody said. “You’re the beau to Miss Emma’s belle.”

Matthew nodded, floating forward and up to the gate, just next to Goody, so he could continue to watch the saloon; Emma must be in there, for him to stare after it so.

“You picked a spitfire, Mr. Cullen, that’s for sure. A quiet one, but she is quick and she is strong.” Goody allowed himself a small smile. Surprisingly the soul returned it, and made a motion with his hands, switching them around.

“Oh, she picked you?” Goody couldn’t help but laugh then. “Somehow I’m not surprised.” Then, after a pause: “...did she know?”

Matthew nodded, but making eye contact with Goody, he raised a finger to his lips.

“I’ll keep mum, no need to worry about me.” Goody raised his hands in acquiescence. He settled, his back to the cemetery, Matthew by his side on the other side of the fence. They both looked off at the saloon.

“So why aren’t you with her right now?” He asked casually. Matthew looked down at his hands sadly, reached them out and pulled them in as if to hug someone.

“That tends to be what tortures most of the departed.” Goody nodded. “It’s why you can’t stay, Matthew.”

The look Matthew gave him was absolutely anguished, and Lord above Goody hated his job.

“You already know it, it’s why you’ve held back and stayed out here. Either way it’ll just keep torturing you until there’s nothing of you left except pain and rage. That’s not a curse you want to have.” Goody said gently, turning to face Matthew proper. Matthew looked away, hunching over, frustrated. His soul knotted in Goody’s vision, tangled, conflicted.

“You won’t do her any good standing out here and staring. And this may sound presumptive but I don’t particularly think she’d forgive you for it either, especially if you turned malicious.” Goody continued. He held out his hand invitingly.

There was a long beat as Matthew mulled everything over. Goody didn’t have to give Matthew any say in the matter, a reaper to a soul was a gardener to weeds; they couldn’t fight back. But when engaging a soul on a more personal level, Goody figured it was only polite.

Finally he nodded, turning to Goody. Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he wasn’t a complete wreck. Still, Goody felt compelled to reassure him.

“It’s not as bad as you think, the other side.” This was a bit of a lie, as Goody had no true idea of what the other side was really like; he knew only that it was a place of quiet. “You’ll find peace.”

Matthew looked back out to the saloon.

“Don’t worry. She roped us all into this, I would be lying if I said we weren’t already all fond of her in some sort of way. We’ll protect her.” Goody said. Well, in all honesty she could probably protect herself. “We’ll have her back.”

Matthew’s gaze moved from the saloon over all of the buildings in the small town, before finally resting it on Goody again.

_“Protect them.”_ He mouthed, ever silent. He took Goody’s hand.

“You have my word.” Goody nodded. A gentle wind tugged at them, seeming to pull Matthew’s soul along with it. The breeze passed. Matthew was gone.

Goody breathed in deep. There was a certain weight to reaping souls personally, one to one. It wasn’t always efficient ( _God_ how he hated that word now), but it was grounding. It kept Goody on the level, where he needed to be. It was a reminder that no matter who or what you were, Death was impartial. It came for all, even its messengers, so it only served to be kind. _Well_ , Goody gave a wry smile as he thought of the precious few he knew who were a little different, _Death comes for most_.

As amiable as his half-conversation with Matthew Cullen was, he walked away from the cemetery feeling drained. He had held together for this long, but now that he could finally rest all he could feel was his ache, his hollow insides. He thought of Matthew’s last request, how he promised to uphold it. _Liar. Coward_. _You can’t uphold shit_. In that moment before he entered the saloon, he only wanted Death to hurry up and come for him sooner.

That dark wish hovered over him like a thundercloud, all the way through dinner. He couldn’t be solely blamed for their awkwardness at least. As much as they all seemed to click on the battlefield (Goodnight excluded), they were all very different men, and they all had led very different lives up to this moment. And mostly, they were just hungry.

Like a fool Goody thought Billy’s anger had eased, when he smirked at Goody’s “syllable” jibe at Faraday. Nobody knew control like Billy, and lord was Goody jealous of it. Now if only he could remember it now and then. He was damn well reminded of it when they finally retired to their room (apparently there was enough room for each man to have his own, but Sam made some sort of excuse for them to share, which Goody appreciated).

“ _You lied_.” Billy hissed as soon as the door was closed. Goody feigned innocence as if it would work.

“Lied about what, darling?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Billy poked his chest accusingly. “You said you would be alright. That this would be different.”

“In my defense, at the time I thought it would be.” Goody raised his hands in surrender. “And I’m alright now, ain’t I?”

“Please.” Billy scoffed, backing off but no less pissed. “‘Fame is a sarcophagus’?” He bitterly echoed Goody’s words from dinner, “Does that sound “alright” to you?”

“Not my most lighthearted euphemism, I will admit,” Goody conceded, “but I am fine now, Billy. Really, I am.”

“Stop lying.” Billy shook his head and crossed over to the window, leaning on the sill. Goody had to internally chide himself for being distracted by the man’s grace, when he was so obviously upset.

“This was a mistake.” Billy grumbled. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

“How can you say that?” Goody cried. “Look at what we’ve done for this town, on just today alone!”

“And look at what it’s done to you, on just today alone!” Billy shot back, whirling around. “Your eyes were white until half--half of the way through dinner. You--you have not--” He huffed, and switched to Cantonese, knowing Goody would understand him, “you’ve hardly talked since you went to the graveyard--don’t deny it, I saw you go there--oh and let’s not forget you were so trapped in the past you didn’t even realize when you were shot!”

“As if you haven’t noticed when you were injured so many times in the past.” Goody snorted. Billy shook his head, unwilling to hear it.

“We should leave. Pack our things, leave in the dark. We were never here.” He said, even starting towards their bags.

“Absolutely not!” Goody protested, starting after him. He knew fighting was going to get him nowhere with his stubborn angel, so he tried a more pleading tone as he grabbed Billy’s arm. “Please, if you don’t care about this town, at least care about what it means to me--”  
      
“No, no--” Billy didn’t fight his grip, per se, but he tugged exasperatedly at Goody’s hold.

“--this is a chance at redemption! This--”

“--we’ve been over this--”

“--it’s a chance to do something good for once in my life! Prove I’m not a coward--”

“--you’re not a--”

“--or some monster--”

“ _Goody--_ ”

“This could fix it!” Goody practically shouted over him. “Billy, I need this. I _need_ to do something right again.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Billy snarled.

“Now who’s the one lying?” Goody snapped back in equal measure. “You know what I’ve done, you know more than anyone the redemption I need. I’m bound for hell if we leave--”

“You are bound for hell if you stay!” Billy roared, smoke billowing from his mouth. Goody spluttered and hacked on it. He didn’t want to let go of Billy but the disorientation made it easy for the other man to wrench away.

“ _Your redemption is not worth your death_.” He spat with finality, before storming back to the windowsill. After a moment he kicked the wall in frustration. Goody watched, regaining his breath, as Billy shoved the window open and leaned out, letting the smoke of his anger billow out lest someone thought the building had caught fire.

It had been a very long time since Billy lost control enough to smoke. Goody slumped, knowing that both of them hadn’t meant to get so... _vehement_. But they always clashed on one thing, and it was always him. He didn’t know how Billy ever managed to see any kind of worth in him. Billy never understood why he didn’t.

Goodnight walked over to the bed and sat down, his back to Billy. He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, and dragged his hands down his face in a feeble attempt to wipe all the bad emotions away.

“I’m not…” He started, but sighed. Not the way to go.

“I know you’re angry.” He began again, “I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving. Even excusing everything we just...said, I still owe Sam too much to leave. And this town deserves all the help it can get. But I know your stance on this. I…” Goody swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, “I’m not expecting you to stay.”

Goody couldn’t tell where Billy was until the weight on the bed shifted ever so slightly next to him. The years spent with the supernaturally quiet man meant this didn’t startle him at all. The canteen offered to him was a bit of a surprise though, but he knew what it was: an apology.

“I’m not angry.” Billy said as Goody took a swig to relieve the itchiness the smoke left in his throat. “I’m _worried_.”

There was a light tap on Goody’s shoulder, pushing on him to turn. When he did, Billy looked as fraught as Goody felt.

“I am worried about what this will do to you. About what will happen when Bogue comes. It will be so much worse than it was today.” He said, taking the time to speak in clear English. His eyes, red and flickering like fire, dropped to Goody’s chest; gently, slowly, he rested his hand against his heart. “Where you go, I go. If you stay, I stay. I don’t want you to go where I cannot follow.”

Goodnight took Billy’s hand and raised it to his lips. The warmth of Billy’s skin was always a comfort; he kissed the back of Billy’s hand, and with gentle motions turned it to kiss his palm, kissing down to his wrist until Billy was cupping his cheek.

“I don’t plan on shuffling off this mortal coil anytime soon, mon ange.” He said, letting the warmth in Billy’s hand soothe him, like honey after bad medicine. “Not with you here to keep me tethered to the mortal plane.”

    “Fancy words.” Billy huffed, but with that small smile of his. He ran his thumb across Goody’s cheekbone.

    “I mean them just the same.”

    “I know.”

    “Now, we won’t make it through this unscathed,” Goody acknowledged, “but with this motley crew of ours we’ll make it through.”

    Unable to resist, he leaned forward and stole a kiss from Billy’s lips, smiling against them when Billy flushed and heated up to his touch. In the breath he took, before Billy stole that kiss back and everything was drowned out by the best kind of physical contact, he whispered:

    “With you by my side I’ll make it through.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah, sweet sweet irony


	6. Present: Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, finally done! My life has gone...hoo boy, WILD, but I finally got this chapter done. We're finally getting into the honest-to-god PLOT of this story, so it's a bit longer than others. Good ol' Sam :)

Sam actually woke up late for once. That was the price of being surrounded by trees, not being able to sense the sun as it came up. Even in Rose Creek, staying in the inn, the rising sun had burned through the windows to bring him up for the day. Here, the trees were tall and dense, and their branches reached across to each other, vying to block the sky for those below.

And rain was soon ahead, he could tell it from the way his scar ached. When he was young he used to tease the old men who told tales of old scars and wounds that could predict the weather. Now he was that old man. He reached up to massage the base of his throat. There was something ironic in the fact that putting pressure on his throat relieved the ache, when the original pressure that caused the scar had only brought terror and agony, but damn if he could place it.

Sitting up, he finally became aware of the immediate smell of cooking fish.

“Breakfast.” Red Harvest said, right on cue. He had restarted the fire and was carefully poking at the fish he had put on a spit with a stick. Across the way, Vasquez was similarly just awaking. The man could sleep all day if he wasn’t roused, but the easiest way to get him up was with food. Groggily he too sat up, and sniffing loudly he practically dragged himself over to the fire.

“Pescadooooo.” He groaned, reaching blindly for the fish on the spit. There was a resounding _thwap_ as Red whacked his hand with the stick. Vasquez yelped and recoiled, blinking his eyes open proper but still disoriented. “Ow!”

“Not done.” Red informed him.

“Eso duele,” Vasquez whined, as petulantly as a child, “Venga Ximena, tengo hambreeee.”

At that, Red and Sam shared a knowing, if slightly concerned look. It’s not like any of them were the particularly sharing sort, but whatever haunted Vasquez was fresh, a fresher wound than theirs, and it involved whoever this Ximena was. He muttered the name enough in his sleep, that’s for damn sure.

“Up and at ‘em, Vasquez.” Sam called, and that seemed to pull the man back to earth. He was no less irritated about it.

“Psshh,” Vasquez scoffed, rubbing at his eyes, and either he didn’t realize he’d called Red the wrong name or he refused to acknowledge it’d happened, “whatever, it does not matter. Raw, cooked, no difference to me.”

That was actually the peculiarity about Vasquez that enabled Sam to track him. Even though the warrant noted that he was dark folk, it didn’t put much of a descriptor past “shapeshifter”. While other bounty hunters looked for signs of abandoned campfires and the like, Sam knew to look for animal remains, eaten in a hurry, and animal tracks that weren’t natural to the environment. While shapeshifters (Furs and dayshifters alike) tended to stick to their human sides as often as possible, in times of desperation the animal was better for survival. Now that instinct for survival hadn’t quite left Vasquez yet, especially on the open road, meaning he’d just as soon eat meat raw as cooked.

“Touch it now, you get burned.” Red Harvest retorted. “Wait.”

Vasquez grumbled, but sat back and waited for breakfast to be cooked proper. He rubbed at his shoulders as if he was cold, staring up at the trees around them warily. In truth, Sam hated the north and the mountains as much as Vasquez did, he just hid it better. The trees here were claustrophobic, to say the least. Maybe Red was more adaptable, or maybe he was just that good at hiding his discomfort, but Sam and Vasquez at least were men built for open skies and bright sunlight.

    Under the looming boughs of the trees, breakfast, and otherwise preparing for the day, was a quiet affair. It wasn’t until they had their horses ready that Vasquez asked, “So what is the plan, jefe? More north?”

    “Of a kind,” Sam said, pulling out the map from his horse’s pack. It took him a minute to pinpoint their location, tracing back from Rose Creek, “If we keep heading up and over this way we’ll enter what appears to be a valley. I believe there’s a town nestled in there where we can get supplies.”

    “Believe?” Vasquez echoed. He came to Sam’s side, peering over his shoulder at the map too.

    “See here, there’s the symbol for a settlement here, but unlike most of the others on this map it don’t got a name.”

    Vasquez stared at the map for a minute.

    “Here, it is marked for dark folk, no?” He asked, pointing to the map legend, then back to the symbol marking the settlement.

    “It means that when this map was drawn, dark folk did live here, yes. Could be different now, could be same.”

    “Maybe it is dark folk only, so humans don’t bother with name.” Vasquez suggested. “That’s what it was like in Texas. If you not white, your town does not get a white name, or a name on the map, because it is place to avoid. Could be same for dark folk up here.”

    “Could be, though I’ve never seen it before. If we get down into the valley and nothing’s there, this direction through the valley and up the mountains should at least get us across to Trimmer outpost, where we can get supplies while staying south of Carson City.”

    “Why do we want to avoid Carson City?” Vasquez asked. Sam gave him a withering look as he folded up the map and stuffed it back in his saddlebags.

    “Why do _you_ want to avoid Carson City?” He shot back, taking the reins of his horse and starting to lead the way; by this point the trees were too dense to ride the horses through, and once they started the descent into the valley they would need guiding anyway. “That should answer your question.”

    Vasquez paused, thinking, before taking the reigns of his mare and catching up to Sam, leaving Red Harvest to bring up the rear.

    “How do you know Trimmer will not have my warrant either?”

    “Oh they’ll most likely have your warrant.” Sam said, rather nonchalantly. “But the relatively few men that are there, I know most of ‘em, and they trust me. If any of ‘em recognize you I’ll have an easier time defending you. I’d be able to defend you better if you actually told me what you did to _earn_ that warrant,” Sam sighed when Vasquez only looked away, “but I’ll do my best with what I got.”

    Vasquez slowed down a little, face scrunched up with confusion.

    “You would defend me at all?” He asked. Again Sam shot him another look, more exasperated this time. Vasquez was a man who desperately wanted to trust easily, but was too scared (or burned, in all likelihood) to let himself. It was almost as if he’d forgotten their entire conversation the night before.

    “I may not be the most crystalline judge of character,” In that brief moment he realized just how much like Goodnight he sounded, and quickly he pushed the realization away, “but having planned and executed a suicide mission with you, to help people less fortunate than ourselves, and seen the way you helped and defended those folks, makes it hard for me to believe you killed that ranger in cold blood.”

    He didn’t bother to see what Vasquez’s reaction was, he turned and kept walking. It was another few minutes before Vasquez caught up to him again. Sam swore he had never seen such a worried and remorseful expression on the man.

    “It is hard...to remember.” He said, slowly. “So much pain.”

    “You’re not obliged to relive it, not on my account.” Sam said, starting to regret his words; he was alarmed by the way Vasquez was acting. His tight grip on the reigns of his horse, the tense way he walked, the way his skin almost seemed to ripple, as if he’d shift any moment and run. There was a bracing in his shoulders, as if expecting a blow from behind.

    “If it will help you, I can...I can try.” Vasquez said. As if sensing his distress, Luna moved closer to her owner’s side, resting over his shoulder until he reached up to half-hug her neck. Her presence made him relax just the slightest. “He lived by the ranch where I worked. Friends with the owner, but treated all us vaqueros like shit, even the white ones. Tejanos, though, he hated. Want us to leave, go back to Mexico, no matter if the land we were living on was Mexico first. Maybe he had family who died at Alamo too, to hate us so much. Maybe just because we were brown.

    “We hated him. But he was law, so not like we could do anything. But me--I love mischief, and so do my friends. Trouble, always trouble we were.” Sam detected longing, or maybe just nostalgia, in Vasquez’s voice, but it quickly fell away: “...People...people said our trouble would doom us. Especially me. I…” Vasquez trailed off for a moment, expression darkening to something closer to grief. In the end he chose not to elaborate.

    “We get drunk one night and decide, we go to his house, when he is gone, trash some of his stuff. Move the tables and chairs around, steal a little of his food, maybe. The good stuff, the stuff we have no money to get. We think he not be back until later in the week, but he came back early. We all tried to run. I helped my friends get through the back door but he grabbed me.”

Vasquez stopped walking completely, eyes far far away. Luna was his only tether to reality, because if he let go, Sam could honestly believe the rest of him would go far far away too. When he picked up again his voice was practically monotone.

“Dragged me out front, I could not fight him. We came right from the ranch, still had our gear. He took my whip, he was screaming for all the people to come out and--s-see…”

“Vasquez.” Sam tried to warn him. This had not been his intention at all.

“Hurt...hurt so much. I could not bear it. I lost control. Next thing I know, blood everywhere. His. Mine. I run.”

And...that was it. Vasquez didn’t continue. He also didn’t move, or come back to earth. Red Harvest, who Sam hadn’t even noticed walking up to them, was the one to step in. He lightly slapped Vasquez’s face, making the man jump. He then spoke in rapid Comanche, looking to Sam pointedly. It took him a moment to translate, and in that time Vasquez looked between the two, disoriented but mostly wary.

“The past is the past. Don’t let it drown you when the future’s ahead.” Sam reached out and squeezed Vasquez’s shoulder to reassure him, adding: “You’re with us now.”

He looked to Red. “I get that right?”

“Close.” Red nodded. Both looked back to Vasquez. In all honesty he still looked like he wanted to bolt.

“Will that help?” He finally forced out, quiet.

“It’ll help, son.” Sam nodded, squeezing Vasquez’s shoulder again. “Might not make everything go away, but jail’s more amenable than the noose.”

“And jail is easy to break.” Red Harvest said nonchalantly, prompting both men to look at him curiously. Well, Vasquez was curious. Sam was exasperated.

“What?” Red shrugged, turning and going back to his horse.

Red talked to him more than Vasquez did, and somehow Sam was still learning new things about the damn kid.

“You know, I’m an officer of the law,” He huffed to the uncaring sky, rubbing his face like a beleaguered parent, “I’m pretty sure I am, at least,” he grabbed Horsie’s reins and began walking again, “I mean, I remember taking an oath, there was a badge involved…”

At least Vasquez smiled at his exasperated grumblings, a sign of his usual self returning. He would have been entirely justified in calling Sam out-- _Sam_ , the law officer, had been the one to bargain with _him_ , the outlaw, for his help--and Sam almost expected him to, but he stayed quiet. They kept on in amiable silence, listening to the birds and the crickets and the life that lived in this forest. Eventually they hit what must have been the peak of the ridge they were climbing, and a fortuitous clearing right at the edge. The gap in the trees let them see almost the entire valley.

It was _breathtaking_. Bright green trees stretched as far as the eyes could see, lining the valley, scooped out between the mountains like a big bowl. Rivers cut down mountains at the north and east, vanishing in and out of the trees until hitting the lowest point of the bowl, where both met and continued on, wider now, towards a pass to the south. Nestled in the junction where the two rivers connected was the small unnamed town on Sam’s map. Sam could make out several buildings, but many were obscured by trees, and even those that weren’t were still tucked in amongst them. Beyond the town, in between the two rivers, were visibly neatened rows of trees, smaller than the pines around them. Sam couldn’t make out the fruit—if any were growing this time of year—but he knew an orchard when he saw one. That explained how the town sustained itself without farming—though he noted two or three patches of cleared, square ground for cattle. Beyond the town, and the orchards, and even more trees, up far on a mountain between the rivers, was a cliff that jutted out of the mountain, a clear wall of rock that stood out against the greenery. Something stood upon it, but before Sam could determine its nature for sure, it was blanketed by a thick white fog. Patches of it weaved between and above the trees, dissipating only to reappear somewhere else. Within a few minutes fog blew over the town, hiding that as well.

Vasquez whistled. Red Harvest was even smiling, his expression some kind of bemused, _maybe_ impressed.

“Will we make the town before nightfall?” Vasquez asked.

“Hopefully.” Sam said.

“If the low clouds hit, we have to stop.” Red warned, pointing to the fog clouds in question. “Wander in them, we get lost.”

“That is correct.” Sam nodded. Vasquez resumed walking.

“We better get moving then.”

As they passed through the clearing and began their descent into the valley proper, the atmosphere changed. If it had just been physically, Sam wouldn’t have been bothered. They were essentially hiking down a small mountain, of course the air would change, the weather, so on and so forth. But the forest itself seemed to change too, in a way he couldn’t describe. He couldn’t pick out any difference in the trees, their density or structure. They loomed overhead, just the same as before, but they seemed more... _more_. And it made the hair on his neck stand up.

“Something is with us.” Red said to Sam in Comanche. When Sam looked over his shoulder, Red had his bow strung and drawn, eyeing the trees.

“Like before? Or different?” He asked, switching to Comanche as well.

“Different. Bigger. It’s scaring the horses.” Luna and One Who Climbs Mountains were shifting back and forth nervously, wanting to turn back. Even Horsie was starting to wicker quietly.

“Vasquez.” Sam looked over his other shoulder. The other man was just as tense, and had shifted his eyes and ears. “Is it magic?”

Vasquez’s brow furrowed, and he stopped moving. After a pondering moment, he didn’t look any more enlightened.

“It is something.” He said. “Not magic like spell magic, my magic. It is...it is like power.”

“Well at least that means it’s not a magical trap of some kind.” Sam said. “Let’s keep moving. Keep your heads down, don’t pay no disrespect. Whatever’s here, we wanna stay on its good side.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. The other men returned to their horses’ sides, and though they didn’t look any less tense they stopped gazing about their surroundings so plainly. Red lowered his bow, but kept an arrow nocked; Vasquez kept a hand on on his pistol, but otherwise began murmuring to Luna in efforts to calm her down. Sam gave his own reassuring pat to Horsie before they moved on.

As time passed, the tension didn’t ease, but they all began to get accustomed to it. Around noon or so a fog began to roll through, so they took it as a convenient stopping point to have lunch. It had passed by the time they had finished eating, and with it most of the wariness they had of the forest. The discomfort didn’t fade however, the surrounding trees were too claustrophobic for that, and the pressure kept them all quiet. Sam hoped it would alleviate once they reached the town.

The further they travelled, the more the trees changed. What at first was mostly variations of pine and firs eventually became dappled with ash and cedar trees. Dirt ground turned to a thick blanket of fallen pine needles and leaves. Other than the calls of birds the only sound became the constant rustling as they moved through the leaves, or the occasional snap of a stepped-on twig. Some of the trees were thicker and shorter, crowding out rival branches to have their own patch of forest to themselves. Vasquez took to examining the trees in their path, gracing his fingers over their bark curiously, leading Sam to believe he had never been in any kind of mountainous forest before. He hadn’t gotten far into the mountains when Sam had tracked him down before. And if he had indeed been born and bred in Mexico--or what used to be Mexico, if he was Tejano like he said--then it wouldn’t be that surprising.

“Is it just me or do the trees have faces?”

Well, that was a little surprising. Frowning, Sam stopped to look back. Vasquez was examining a fairly knotted and lumpy tree, squinting and leaning close to a few knots in particular.

“Just you.” Red Harvest deadpanned, though he began to look at the nearby trees with more scrutiny as well. Vasquez shot him a scowl before looking back to the tree.

As all had stopped walking, the constant rustling of leaves fell to silence. It would have been eerie if not for the continuous chitter of birds overhead.

Sam felt his stomach drop. There were no birds overhead. The forest was dead silent.

“Vasquez--”

The tree Vasquez was examining _twitched_ , and whatever Vasquez saw made him jerk back with a shout, tripping over roots that weren’t there before. At that exact moment Red Harvest cried out, suddenly yanked to the ground. Sam ran in their direction, but took no more than two steps before something caught in the collar of his shirt with enough force to topple him backwards.

“The trees! The trees!” Red yelled in Comanche, dagger out and chopping at the thick roots that pinned down his ankle, and were rapidly growing over the rest of him.

Vasquez yelled and writhed as roots wrapped around him, pinning his arms and legs and dragging him down into the leaves. He shifted, partially at first to desperately claw at the roots and then fully, trying to squeeze himself out of them. Though he almost dragged himself free the roots simply tightened around the jaguar further, with enough force to make Vasquez scream again and drop the shift as he was dragged back towards the tree.

Roots were growing over Sam as well, wrapping around his legs tight. He was dragged towards the tree he had been closest to, and he felt himself sinking, the dirt and leaves giving way and starting to bury him. Their horses bucked in terror, screaming. Luna was the only one who wasn’t scared enough to back away completely, instead rearing and slamming her hooves into the roots around her owner. It didn’t do any good, and she came far too close to bashing Vasquez. What was left of him to bash. His screams were muffled by leaves and dirt and his hand was the only thing visible.

“Red! Red!” Sam roared in Comanche. “Call for help!”

“Sam--”

“JUST DO IT!” He managed to launch himself up to a sitting position before the roots could pin him flat. In the split second of vision he had, he saw Red, almost completely engulfed in the roots. He looked terrified out of his wits, but when their eyes met he nodded as much as he could manage. A split second of an ear-splitting scream burst out of Red’s throat, only to be choked and stifled by more roots. And by that time roots had wrapped around Sam’s throat and pulled him back down.

Back down into _fire and screams some of them were his own until the rope’s pulled tighter. It dug into his skin and it digs and it digs and he can’t breathe but he’s not dying. Why couldn’t he die? Everyone else was dead he’s watching it all he could_ hear _it all and it was_ burning _. The men laughed at his twitching feet and his strangled throat and all he could do was wait for death to come. And it never came._

There was one last, muffled shriek from Red Harvest before the leaves and roots buried them all. The rustling fell silent. The horses continued to neigh and paw at the trees. Birds filled the air again. Time passed. Sam was too far gone to tell how much.

“What have you done!?” A voice cut through the quiet and the torture. It was deep and bellowing. “Let these people go! We do not kill first, ask questions later like savages.”

The trees groaned loudly, the noise shaking through the roots that held them. Deep, aggressive groaning answered in turn. The groaning continued, overlapped, but eventually the roots around them began to move and loosen. Rustling returned as Sam clawed himself free as fast as he could, gasping for air and trying to drag himself back to the present. Leaves and dirt fell away as he scrambled away from the tree that had held him. Instinctively his hand flew to his throat, desperately trying to remind himself that there was no rope there. Not anymore. Still, he gasped for breath and trying to focus on his surroundings was difficult. All he could make out was the blurred shapes of the horses, and one of a very large man—their rescuer, then.

Thankfully Red and Vasquez were freeing themselves as well. Sam saw their rescuer head towards Vasquez.

“Here, let me help--”

“Don’t touch me!” Vasquez snapped, jolting away from the man. He was a bit shaky himself, but still had enough of his wits about him to draw his gun. Not enough to not jerkily point the gun at the man, and then at the trees as if a bullet in them would do any good.

Red had managed to find his bow, though most of his arrows were either broken or missing among the leaves. He still had his dagger drawn though, eyeing the man with as much suspicion as Vasquez.

“Please, this is all a misunderstanding.” The man pleaded, hold his hands open and out. He had something at his side, but Sam didn’t think it was a gun. Vasquez practically hissed, rage and fear making him lose control over his human form slightly.

“You control the trees.” He spat.

“I talk, they listen.” The man shrugged. “There’s a difference.”

Seeing the way the two men regarded him, the man backed away, and nearly tripped over Sam. Sam was still trying to calm down, massaging his throat. Seeing him still prone, the man knelt down to his level.

“I’m terribly sorry, are you alright?”

This close, Sam’s vision finally managed to focus, and he could make out the man clearly. He had tan skin, a well-kept mustache grown down into a small beard, sharp eyebrows, one of which had a scar running through it. His eyes were a rich brown, but there were flecks of green in them, which struck Sam as odd. And his hair, his hair too, because while at the top of his head it was a dark brown, it faded to a lighter, redder color, and it was layered with green, thin leaves, as if he had tied them into his hair somehow. It grew past his shoulders, and hung loose.

Before Sam could respond, there was a spark of recognition in the man’s eyes.

“Well I’ll be,” He grinned, “You’re Sam Chisholm!”

Sam managed a nod as the man grabbed his hand and shoulder and helped him to his feet. He seemed able to take on most of Sam’s weight quite easily, and once standing, the man was significantly taller than Sam himself, and Sam considered himself to be rather tall.

“The situation of our meeting is unfortunate, but I must say you are precisely the man we’re looking for.” The man continued. Sam spared a glance to the others. Now on his feet, Vasquez was clinging to Luna, murmuring to her softly, his pistol still drawn but lowered. Red had managed to find an unbroken arrow and notch it, but his weapon was lowered as well. He was glad for it--for all intents and purposes this man seemed friendly enough.

“I am? You know of me?” He asked. He was a travelling warrant officer, and a black one at that, so he supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised, but the way the man recognized him felt...more familiar than that.

“Our paths have crossed many times, Mr. Chisholm,” the man said, brown-green eyes twinkling, “but not enough to meet face to face. I have seen you often, though you may not have seen me. Regardless, stories of your arrests have been spread far and wide, and a man of your skill is exactly what we need.”

“You keep saying that.” Sam said dryly. “What exactly is happening here to need someone like me?”

“Oh!” The man started, “I’ve gotten ahead of myself, I’m terribly sorry. I should introduce myself properly. My name is Jason-- _Doctor_ \--” The man added quickly, as if he had briefly forgotten it was his title “--Jason Greenbough, and I speak on behalf of the trees here.”

“You speak for _them_?” Vasquez gestured warily to the trees that had nearly murdered them. “They speak well enough, I think.”

“Please, don’t hold it against them. These ents are among the oldest beings of this valley, and therefore the most protective of those who live here, especially with things how they are right now. And most people coming through to _Máraindóme_ take the main road in. Those who don’t…”

“Usually have some ill intent.” Sam finished. Dr. Greenbough’s accent was what sounded familiar, he realized. It wasn’t the accent of someone who lived out here in the mountains, it was of someone who came from further east, though still he couldn’t quite place it.

“Exactly.” Greenbough nodded. “You are very lucky I heard your cries.”

"And we're lucky we had someone to cry out." Sam said, throwing a look to Red Harvest. The man's expression was strictly neutral, refusing to acknowledge the comment.

"These are my associates, Vasquez, and Red Harvest." He continued, gesturing to them in turn. 

“You will be safe and welcome in town.” Greenbough smiled. “Come. We should get moving now, so we can reach it before nightfall. I’ll explain as we go.”

Sam gave another look to the others; all of them were wary, but as Greenbough took off, they followed behind. The good doctor seemed right at home in the forest, to the point Sam could swear he was blending in _with_ the trees, phasing through them effortlessly. For all he said he was a doctor, he didn’t much look like one.

“The town, you said its name was--”

“ _Máraindóme,_ ” Greenbough repeated, “Many simply call it _Mára_ , for short.”

“I don’t recognize the language.” Sam said. “And it wasn’t written on the map. We weren’t sure there was a town at all until we crossed the ridge in.”

“That is because it is Sylvan, and at the time it was recorded there was no way to write it. There still isn’t, truly.”

“Sylvan?”

“The language of the trees--of ents and dryads. They were here first, in strong concentration because of the bounty provided by the mountain springs. When humans first tried to settle here, there was conflict--humans could not tell which trees would bleed, and at first they didn’t care. But eventually as winter set in, a truce was reached. A mutual agreement to live in harmony and support one another. As such, the humans allowed the trees to name the town, as a sign of goodwill. And, well, ents tend to be straightforward. And such, _Máraindóme._ Goodwill.” Greenbough explained.

“And since then there’s been peace?” Sam asked. It was rare for dark folk and humans cooperatively like that, not without some degree of secrecy on the part of the former.

“Yes, for the most part. We have learned how to help each other. The treefolk have helped grow the orchards that sustain the town, and during the winter months humans take care of the trees when they are too weak to do much more than sleep. There is still a divide, especially as the treefolk tend to keep to themselves and the forest, and any new settlers take a while to get used to the arrangement--if they do at all. But yes, peace.”

“Except now it is not so peaceful?” Vasquez actually piped up. Sam noted he was eyeing every tree they passed now with a look of distrust.

“Unfortunately.” Greenbough sighed. “People have started going missing.”

“How so?” Sam frowned.

“Vanished, in the night. So far only people wandering the forest alone. The first lost was a month ago--now we’ve lost six.”

“Do you think it could be runaways?”

“No. None of these people had reasons to run. One of the men missing, John Kerry, he owned the grocery. The other, a young woman named Wisteria, she was soon to be married to one of the dryad.” Greenbough suddenly sound more heated, the anger in his voice controlled but reminiscent of the bellow Sam had heard when he admonished the ents. “The schoolmaster Henry, Jessie the banker’s wife, hell, one of the _deputies_ , the--each one of them taken in the night, while they were outside and alone. They were kidnapped, all of them.”

“You said six.” Sam said, wary of the man’s clenched fists. “That’s only five.”

“Because the sixth--or really the first, to go missing, she was--” Greenbough’s breath hitched, “ _is_ , a child. Only seven.”

Vasquez hissed a curse; Sam’s jaw clenched; Red muttered something under his breath.

“My thoughts exactly.” Greenbough gave a heartless smile. "We were foolish. We thought she had simply gotten lost in the forest. We sent out search parties. We didn't realize something was foul until two more were gone. And now, a month has passed and we still have nothing. No culprit, no lead. And no sign of it stopping."  
  
    "Has it been humans and dark folk taken, or just humans?"   
  
    "Humans. I know what you are thinking," Greenbough said quickly, "And it's the same sentiment plaguing most the of town. They believe a tree-folk is to blame."   
  
    "And you don't believe that?"   
  
    Greenbough stayed silent long enough that another fog began to pass through. Instead of stopping, however, Greenbough led them on, unbothered by the lack of vision. He had some kind of system, tapping on trees as he passed, that guided them.   
  
    "I am split between the two sides of myself." He said eventually. "On the one hand, the tree-folk are not the kind to kidnap people, let alone children--the youth are the ones they are most protective of. But the more new settlers come in, the more the forest's way of life is challenged; I won't lie and say there aren't some bitter sentiments among them. On the other hand, these people are just...people. They're just trying to survive and make a new life for themselves. Why take their own? What purpose does it serve?"   
  
    "War." Red Harvest said. It was the first time he'd spoken since the attack. "Someone wants a fight."   
  
    "Wouldn't be surprised if that was the case." Sam nodded in agreement, solemn. "I've seen men lynched on hearsay alone. Have you considered someone is trying to cause a fight between the, ah, tree-folk and the humans?"   
  
    "I know it is what is most likely, but...why?" Greenbough said. "What is the point of more bloodshed? It will only cause pain and chaos. Who would believe any of us deserved that?"   
  
    "You'd be surprised." Sam said, mind flitting to Bogue. Rose Creek sure as hell didn't deserve its lot. Lincoln sure as hell didn't deserve its lot.   
  
    "I suppose I would be. I have already seen enough bloodshed in my time to dedicate my life to fixing the wounds." Greenbough smiled sadly. "I am too peace-minded."   
  
    "Ain't a bad thing to be." Sam returned the smile. He had long ago forgotten what it was like to be like that, peace-minded as Greenbough said. He had seen too many dark corners of this world, too much death and agony and not enough sense to justify it. Since Lincoln burned to the ground, hell before that, since the _war_ , Sam had always been on edge. Ready for the next fight. The next takedown. His sisters used to tease him for being so paranoid. Clementine, ever the optimist, would smile wide, throw her arms out even wider, and proclaim “God has brought us through the fire, Sam! And now we’re here and all we’ve got is sun and water ahead.”

So peace-minded.

If any of the other men notice him stiffen, they didn’t mention it.

“Maybe so, yet here I am, asking you for help.” Greenbough’s smile turned wry.

“A fresh set of eyes never hurt.” Sam said. “Can’t promise I’ll solve this, but as an officer of the law it would be wrong of me not to try.”

“And for that I am incredibly grateful.” Greenbough said. “And the town will be as well, I’m sure.”

“Will they?” Vasquez asked suddenly. “You say there are tree-folk, and humans, but we--” He gestured between himself and Red, “--we are not those.”

“I cannot speak for everyone, but considering that we have several dark folk--not of the forest--who live among us rather openly, you should be welcomed.” Greenbough paused to look back at the vaquero.

Even Sam was taken aback by that.

“Really?” He asked.

“The general sentiment is that we all do our part to help each other survive, and as long as that’s happening, there’s no reason to throw decent folks out. And,” Greenbough chuckled, “we’ve already befriended the trees.”

“And you, you are tree too?” Vasquez gestured at the doctor. “You talk like you belong with them.”

“And with the humans.” Greenbough amended. His tone was still genial, but his expression had cooled considerably. “I am a child of both. Half-dryad. And as the only one who has come to live here--full grown, at least--I have found myself the mediator between both worlds.”

“All the more reason to see this issue fixed.” Sam said. He had begun to put together the pieces, but it was nice to have a straightforward answer. Though he did shoot a look at Vasquez for being so nosy.

“Indeed.” Greenbough said, turning on his heel and continuing on.

“We should be clearing the trees and--” He made it about five steps before something fell from the tree right above him, with a rather loud yelp. He only just managed to dodge in time, hand flying to the small axe at his hip.

He had no need for it, unless women had suddenly become mindless, violent enemies overnight. But the woman on the ground wasn’t violent, simply groaning as she tried to sit up. She looked young, and had to be younger than Emma was; her face was smooth, which made her seem even younger. She had a square jaw and thin lips, giving her a boyish look despite the dark wavy hair that framed her face and grew down to her shoulders.

“Marv!" Greenbough cried, immediately leaning down to help pull the young woman up. "What are you doing so far from home! And so close to nightfall!"  
  
    If he had pulled Sam up with considerable ease, he pulled this woman up as if she weighed absolutely nothing at all. Sam could almost swear the doctor had lifted her straight into the air, but her feet seemed solidly planted on the ground when he looked at them. Her dress was frayed at the edges, and used to be some shade of green or blue, though it had long since been faded and dirt-stained to be determinable.   
  
    "It's not my fault!" She cried, in a voice far deeper and raspier than Sam expected. "Rána stole all the roving we got off of Millie and I've been trying to get it all back from her! She's the one who pushed me out of the tree."   
  
    She glared back up into the branches.  From the thick tangle of branches above came an indignant squawk.   
  
    "Liar! We were making bird nests with it!"   
  
    "You still pushed me out of the tree!"   
  
    "Which you obviously now deserve for ly--"   
  
    "So _what I'm hearing_ ," Greenbough said over them, pinching the bridge of his nose, "is that you two were up to your usual mischief."   
  
    The woman--Marv--clasped her hands behind her back and kicked at the ground. The voice in the tree--Rána--hummed.   
  
    "It was just a bit of fun. I didn't have to work today." Marv said.   
  
    "And the last storm knocked down a lot of the bird nests around my home tree. We really were making them." Rána added. Greenbough sighed exasperatedly.   
  
    "That is fine. But you should have kept better track of time. Lest I remind you there's someone abducting people in the night?"   
  
    "I know, I know.” Marv huffed. "I was gonna go home soon."   
  
    "I'm sure." Greenbough said dryly. He sighed again; perhaps this was something that happened often, to wear on his nerves so. "Look, I know how your father feels about you wear--"   
  
    "Doc, please." Marv hissed suddenly, tugging Greenbough away and glancing between him and the other men pointedly. The doctor's face twisted with chagrin. He and flicker seemed to share a quick, wordless conversation made mostly of looks. Eventually, Greenbough seemed to win the discussion and he turned to face them.   
  
    "My apologies, but I can't in good conscience allow Marv to walk home alone." He said.   
  
    "Understandable." Sam replied. "Want us to tag along, offer a bit more protection?"   
  
    "No!" Marv didn't give Greenbough a chance to answer. "Just the doc will be more'n...fine..." She trailed off, staring. Sam followed her gaze and had to swallow a sigh.   
  
    She was staring at Red, and pretty brazenly too. He of course was meeting her stare measure for measure with a glare of his own, but she didn't seem perturbed by it. At least she didn't look upset or mean in any fashion. More like fascination, which wasn't much better, but better than plain disgust. Greenbough also noticed her staring and elbowed her harshly. She grunted in the most un-ladylike fashion Sam had ever seen.   
  
    "I'm sorry--uh--" She stammered, face red, "Thank you for the offer but--but I will be fine with just Dr. Greenbough, so..." She trailed off again, mumbling.   
  
    "If you keep on this way," Greenbough hurriedly picked up where Marv left off, pointing in the direction they had been walking in, "You'll come upon Granger’s pasture. Past her place you'll find the main road, and from there the sheriff's office will be easy enough to find. I will meet you there."   
  
    "Very well." Sam tipped his hat. "Miss."   
  
    Marv nodded in return, and with that the one group, now two, headed off in different directions.   
  
    "Bye Marvie! Bye Doc!" Rána chirped from above. A small, nimble hand dropped into sight and waved. "Bye newcomers!"   
  
    The hand was very clearly wooden. While Sam and Red nodded up to her as well, Vasquez offered a hesitant wave. Rána giggled in response. The tree branches rustled behind them and also moved off, in another direction.   
  
    "This place is creepy." Vasquez grumbled as soon as they had put some distance between them and the others.   
  
    "Sure is a strange sight to see." Sam agreed. "But if they're peaceful and happy enough I won't fault them for it."  
  
    "Strange..." Red repeated, in an odd enough way that Sam actually looked back at him. The kid's face was thoughtful. Sam thought he would have been angry, or his usual, stoic self, especially in the face of Marv's rudeness. Instead Sam could have sworn he looked bewildered.   
  
    This didn't pass Vasquez's notice either.   
  
    "Suddenly you don't mind the staring, no?" Vasquez snickered, "as long as the girl is pretty enough."   
  
    "Shut up." And just like that, the stoic Red was back and more stoic than ever. Sam tried and failed to hold back a smile.   
  
    "Reel it in, Vasquez. They only just met."   
  
    "Shut up." Red repeated, scowling. Sam shrugged in surrender while Vasquez laughed out loud.   
  
    They settled back into their usual banter as they headed along through the trees, beginning to thin around them. But Sam could see it in Vasquez's shiftiness, and Red's white knuckles. They were wary, put off by the strange welcome they had received, and the odd little bubble of a world they had entered. Sam was uneasy himself. The air seemed thick around him, and if the trees didn't bear down on him the sky did. He wouldn't lie and say he didn't find some relief in doing good work again, after three weeks of Rose Creek and death (and emptiness, which he wasn't too fond of acknowledging) in his lungs; but something was off here. Red and Vasquez had both confirmed that there was something with them, a power, they said, and Sam was ready to believe it was more than just sentient trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhh as i did a last check before posting i found so, so many fucking problems with this but whatever, it's midnight, I'll make sure my bad writing habits don't carry into the future. Hopefully. 
> 
> I will say, it makes me very happy as a writer to have all these moments of foreshadowing in here that's so subtle it might not be noticed. Makes me rub my evil writer hands together at what's to come...now that we've finally reached the Valley...


	7. Past: Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This semester has been one fuck of a ride, but it's pretty much over now, HOORAH. I've finally finished this chapter, and hopefully will get the next one done before the year is out! Jack is very challenging to write, but also fun, at times.

“I believe that bear was wearing people clothes.” The man, the most wily looking of the group, said as Jack walked away. Likely the man believed he was out of earshot, or simply he was too rude to really care. Either way, it didn’t bother Jack none. In fact, it made him smile.

A bear wearing people clothes. How silly.

He was a man who wore people clothes. He just didn’t belong with people.

_“We met about six years back up in Cheyenne.”_

His smile fell. He never expected to see Sam Chisholm again. Certainly not asking him to take up his weapons—to fight _with_ him, not against.

_“You still collecting scalps?”_

Said neutrally. Without judgement. This Sam was different than the one he met six years ago. Six years ago his rage was raw, and nigh on indiscriminate. It may not have been aimed directly at Jack, but it was the kind of rage that had enabled Sam to put a gun to the man’s temple with not an ounce of fear. Jack when he had blood on his soul. Under his fingernails. In his teeth. When he was hardly seen as a man at all.

_“Well that’s part of another story, ain’t it?”_

No, Jack didn’t belong with people. He had long let his rage simmer and dissolve to almost nothing, leaving his grief behind like the mountain after the spring melt. But Sam still had his. Jack could see it. They may have parted ways still the bitter, hellbound men they were when they met, but while Jack had found his form of peace, Sam had not. He simply had better control of his fury.

He didn’t belong with those people. He felt the volatility in all of them. The silent Asian man looked like a coiled snake, ready to strike whip-quick at any moment. The Mexican had shown no reaction other than to laugh at the reaper’s joke when two souls were killed in front of them. The wily fur was the most obvious, his brand—poorly hidden by his bandana—the physical proof he was dangerous. Even the woman, who had looked at him pleadingly, who must have been another victim of Bogue, had a stiff energy about her. Screams buried beneath skin.

He would pray for them, surely, he thought as he led his horse down the path and out of sight. Jack knew his wound should be looked at, the blood had crusted dry on the side of his head, but his feet didn’t lead him towards the village proper (they were scared of him anyways), or towards his own home (too quiet). For all he enacted his righteous vengeance on the men who had attempted to take everything from him, his heart still beat double time. Not a good thing for a heart as worn out and weary as his to be doing. There was only one place he went when he wanted to calm his heart.

They weren’t buried there, under the willow tree that arched over the river that snaked through the shanty town, but he had placed markers nonetheless. No, they were buried back near his first home, the one they had built together. The one he couldn’t bear anymore. But he swore he would bring them with him in his soul when he left, and he did.

They didn’t quite look like markers. To passersby they were just three oddly shaped rocks left at the base of the tree. He tied his horse to the low branch he always tied her to, removed his hat, and knelt before them.

He missed the three of them. He longed to be with them every day. Dying might have been a boon, then, but not for Jack. Not yet. He didn’t deserve them yet. And they certainly deserved more than the man he was.

The markers stared back at him, silent.

“I am alive, by God’s grace.” He murmured. He glided his fingers over the smooth stones. “My work on this earth is not finished, my darlin’s. My teacup.” He hand rested on the smallest stone. He looked to the largest one.

“I was called upon, by strange men. They asked for my aid. To lift my weapons against another man. An evil man. A wicked man.”

As far removed as he kept from the world, even in his recluse he had heard of Bogue. He razed towns for profit, they said. He would kill anyone, burn down anything to sate his greed. And unlike the exaggerated tale that hung on Jack’s shoulders, Bogue’s was true.

“I will pray for them.” Jack said. “They take up a noble cause.”

The stones were silent.

“I will not join them. I ain’t the man they want. I can’t be the one they need. I laid down my weapons to follow the path of God, and only take them up again to protect myself in times of need.”

Silence.

“Don’t look at me like that, sunshine.” Jack huffed. “That is the kind of blood soaked path you never wanted me on.”

No response. He sighed. He hated how clearly he could picture her, standing over him with her hands on her hips. Her piercing, beautiful voice. _It is not the same as before. Who cares of the blood if it is for true justice? There are still people to help._

He thought of that young woman. He didn't have an inkling of who she was, but still a part of him wondered if Nasha would like her.

_I would hate her and you know it._

“You say that about everyone we meet. And yet the old town loved you more than they cared for me.” Jack laughed. His laughter quieted until it was swallowed by the river.

“If God spared me this day to meet those folks, maybe it is as He intended.” He sighed. “That I should don the fur again.”

_“The bear is not a curse. It is ferocious. Yet it protects.” She told him one night, after too many nightmares drove him to drink. The old gods wouldn’t stop screaming in the dark._

_“It means something different across the sea, where I’m from.”_

_“Then it has bad meaning. We are not across the sea. We are here. It does not have to mean the same.”_

He prayed at the stones for far longer than he usually did. He did not know if he would see these stones again, or if he would see his beloveds first. His little teacup. His wily rascal. His sunshine.

His family.

Jack donned his hat and rose to his feet.

“I’ll be like a fish outta water among the civilized folk I’m aimin’ to join.”

_It’ll be good for you_.

“Ever the devil on my shoulder, sunshine.” He chuckled.

_And the angel on mine._

He untied Miriam’s reins and together they made the small journey back to Jack’s home. It didn’t take long to pack—and he didn’t pack much. His home was more of a shack, and he never truly lived in it as much as he camped out in the forests while he hunted. There were still bags that lay unopened since he came to live here. The furniture had a nice layer of dust on it.

“Maybe in time this home will be a gift unto another lonesome stranger.” He said to himself as he washed his head and face.

It wasn’t that he didn’t plan to come back, but he didn’t expect it. Whatever was about to happen, when he joined these men and took up this mantle, something was going to change. For better or worse, he could not predict. But change was in the wind.

He bandaged his wound, hooked saddlebags onto Miriam, and with one long, yearning look at the willow tree off in the distance, he set off after the men who had sought his aid.

Six men and a woman were not difficult to track in the slightest. Jack didn’t even have to call on the bear to catch their scent—their tracks were as clear as day. That being said, he kept his distance. Coming upon them suddenly would likely get himself shot. So he followed, maybe two, three hours behind and the same distance in miles. The grass dried to plains fairly quickly, and as they travelled south the ground rose, not in more mountains but towering flat cliffs.

Indian territory. Or the remains of it. There weren’t any traces of a steady camp or tribe anywhere, but there were the bodies. Jack knew the practice was common among some of the tribes out east on the plains, and far north, but he wasn’t sure if they were also the custom of the tribal territories they were passing through. It could be from a Choctaw or a Sioux travelling group losing some of their own. But fellow travellers on the road could be just as dangerous as an incumbent tribe. Or not dangerous at all. Nonetheless, Jack kept a weather eye out as he entered the bluffs.

His concern was realized when he finally picked out a figure darting among the tops of the cliffs as the sun set. So instead of making camp, as he was sure the main group was currently, he again tied Miriam’s reins, to the gnarled branches of a dead tree this time, and began tracking on foot. Better to be safe than sorry, after all.

Whoever this stranger was, he was smart, he had to be. To anyone other than Jack there was no one in this canyon, but Jack could pick out the tiniest subtleties. The way a bush leaned, or how the sand piled up. Rocks with a trail in the dirt as they’d been kicked. Other times though, there was absolutely nothing, and that was what truly confounded Jack. It was as if the stranger had no feet. At one point he picked up horse hooves, but those were also well hidden and prone to vanishing in the bush. The moon was quite high in the sky by the time Jack gave up. There was no catching this elusive fellow, Indian or no. The best Jack could do was join the main group (from a slight distance), and take watch over them in case the stranger tried anything.

At least the stranger was polite enough to wait until morning. Not only that, the group were all light sleepers enough to catch the scent of blood as it approached. They seemed alarmed by Jack just as much as the Indian that wove in and out of the brush to greet them. All attention was turned to the Indian soon enough when they all realized the deer carcass he had draped over his horse.

Jack honestly wasn’t surprised that Sam befriended the man, who was to be called Red Harvest. A little surprised that the man made Sam eat a liver. Even if he didn’t know the Comanche very well, he didn’t recall them ever having that distasteful practice. That knowledge made him slightly wary when Red Harvest joined them at the campfire for breakfast, though he followed suit when everyone introduced themselves. The Comanche seemed fine enough to let them have the deer, but he didn’t partake himself. His gaze would drift over each and every one of them, linger for a while without a word, and then move on. When he looked at Jack, his expression had an edge of smugness to it, which only made Jack trust him less.

“How’d you win him over so fast?” Jack murmured to Sam.

“How’d I win you over so fast?” Sam shot back. “Some folks got no better place to be.”

“Did you tell him what he was signing up for?”

“Yes.”

Jack rocked in his seat, taking another sip of gritty coffee.

“And people will come from east and west,” He sighed, “and from north and south, and recline at the table.”

“Mark?” Sam guessed. Jack smiled and shook his head, but the young man to his right chimed in before he could speak.

“Luke.”

“Never was good with that.” Sam shrugged, reaching for the pot over the fire. Though he said he wasn’t hungry, everyone else eating must have reminded him that a bite of raw liver wasn’t a meal. Jack turned more towards the young man.

“I’m sorry but didn’t quite catch your name earlier, son.”

“Teddy Q.” The man nodded.

“And you and the missus, you…?”

“Mrs. Cullen? No. We’re not--I’m just helping her--I’m--” Teddy stuttered, suddenly nervous.

“I am recently widowed, Mr. Horne.” Mrs. Cullen said coolly, sitting close next to Teddy and overhearing. “By the man we aim to confront. Teddy is my associate. He’s been helping me gather this army.”

“My condolences, and my apologies for the misunderstanding.” Jack nodded respectfully. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and--”

“--And saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Emma finished, with the faint traces of a smile. “I know the phrase.”

“I hope it is one that brings you comfort, Mrs. Cullen.” Jack said. “You both God-fearin’ people, then?”

While Emma nodded, Teddy’s expression soured.

“As much as we can be, when a man’s trying to take His place.” He huffed. At Jack’s questioning look, he explained, somberly: “Bogue burned down our church. Nearly killed our preacher along with...” He swallowed, and didn’t finish. It wasn’t hard for Jack to put two and two together.

“To scare us.” Emma added. “Into leaving our land. He had his Blackstones make us leave the bodies in the street for days.”

“My cousin was one of the dead. She tried to run and his Indian axed her down.” Teddy continued. Jack watched the two of them seem to sink into each other as they went on, reliving the horrors.

All of the other men around the fire were quiet, absorbing their words--even Red Harvest. His face flickered with genuine emotion for the first time Jack had noticed, some kind of bitter sympathy.

“I thought Bogue wanted the mines.” The wily man--Faraday--was the first one to speak up. He almost sounded surprised, but a vein of horror tempered it.

“He wants it all.” Emma said. “Our land to try for more gold, our labor to find it, whether we’re willing or not.”

“A lot of the men in the mines across the river signed rigged contracts. They’re hardly paid at all. We can hardly help them as it is, he’s strangled our supply lines.” Teddy said. “He’s tried buying us and tricking us, all that’s left is killing us.”

An uneasy silence fell over the group as no one quite knew what to say. No one but Faraday. Silence seemed unamenable to him. Jack wondered if he shifted, given the full moon was last night.

“Good thing you’ve hired all of us on, then.” He raised his coffee cup in an odd form of cheer.

“I can agree with that.” Goodnight nodded, also raising his cup. “You have us as your army, and your army we will try to be.”

No one else said a word but to raise their cups as well, though Red Harvest, who didn’t have one, only nodded.

“Thank you.” Emma nodded in return. They returned to eating, but the suspicious tension of before thanks to Red Harvest’s appearance had shifted to a somber camaraderie. Still, what Teddy had said first stood out in Jack’s mind.

“All Gods are to be feared, for they have a power we can never speak to.” He said. “To falsely claim to have equal or more than that power invites only darkness. We can only pray our faith in the Gods we’ve chosen keeps the darkness at bay.”

“And what if we don’t have that kind of faith?” Faraday said. It wasn’t challenging, just curious.

“Just because I choose to walk with a lantern and you choose not to doesn’t mean we can’t navigate the darkness the same. What matters is what we each intend to find at the other end.” Jack answered sagely.

“Interesting words,” Goodnight commented, “You sure you aren’t a preacher yourself, Mr. Horne?”

“You ask that after you saw what happened to those Pigeon brothers?” Vasquez countered with a dark chuckle. “That didn’t look like a Samaritan to me. Looked like someone who uses God to say he’s above whoever he kills.”

Jack didn’t miss the accusation, nor the golden medallion of St. Christopher that hung from Vasquez’s neck, almost hidden by the silver one engraved with something he couldn’t place.

“I am not so honorable as a man of the cloth, Mr. Robicheaux.” Jack shook his head. He looked innocently at Vasquez, though his words were anything but. “God has His path for all of us, and I have long known mine is the warlike. I have never claimed a higher place than that, or over anyone else. As you spoke of the souls no longer with us due to their devilish actions, you know my skill. You’d best not invite that skill upon yourself.”

Vasquez blanched a little, but quickly recovered as the other men snickered at his expense. He nodded to Jack, more respect in his gaze. His face twisted into a scowl as Faraday elbowed him teasingly.

“Don’t poke the bear.” He said. “I’m pretty sure bears eat cats around these parts.”

“Or dogs, anything they can get their paws on when the going gets tough.” Jack nodded. “I honor their tenacity for survival. I’m not the kind to eat other creatures when I don the fur. That speaks of a time and a lantern I’ve long since set down. I walk in the footsteps of God, bear and man alike.”

Most of the group eyed him pretty oddly after that, and the conversation awkwardly fell away to more eating. It would certainly be a little while before Jack had his footing amongst proper people again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack is someone who's hard to get a read on (in my opinion, unless he explains himself), and as such what kind of dark folk he is is also difficult to discern, though there are hints. Goody, being a Reaper and having a nigh-on all-powerful Insight ability (if that hasn't been clear by now) is the only one who knows the name of what Jack is and what power he has, but Sam is the only one who has an idea of what that power is capable of (As of this particular scene, at least). He's certainly not just a dayshifter (not that Vasquez is either, but we'll get into that later...). 
> 
> That being said I'm not trying to hide it or make it a surprise and I have so many Ideas (about everyone, and the worldbuilding, seriously, just wait until I get into the Werewolf Laws later on) and if anything was just Too confusing just ask and I will happily Expound (unless it is to be revealed in a later chapter, in that case you'll have to wait, sorry...).
> 
> Did I use too many parenthesis here? I feel like I did. Woops (I'm not sorry -shot-).


	8. Present: Red Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be finished before the new year. That very much didn't happen, lol. But eyyyyyy it's done!
> 
> Let's see what Red's opinion is on all of this as the trio heads into town...

He had carved himself into this corner, he figured. Stoic, aloof, only because if he did people were more likely to leave him alone. But of course, now that his friends were so used to the facade, seeing it crack warranted them to _never shut up about it_.

    Gods forbid.

    Red sighed. He tried to tell himself to let it roll off his shoulders like the rain. His village back home would tease him all the time, just as goodnaturedly as his new companions did. Though he wasn’t quite sure he could remember any of them being as irritating as Vasquez could be. Then again, he was an only child; he saw plenty of his childhood friends fight with siblings the way they fought with each other. That wasn’t something that Red was too happy about, but he couldn’t complain too much. After years drifting on his own, returning to his tribe only for brief periods, it was nice to have something a bit more stable; a solid purpose, something to work towards. And to have someone who wasn’t scared of him somehow--albeit because he was working hard to keep it that way.

    _“If it isn’t your skill, it will be your ferocity. If it isn’t your ferocity it will be your skin. If it isn’t your skin it will be your voice. They will find something to judge you for_. _” The elder warned him. Nevermind the fact they were pushing him out because of his voice in the first place, into a world that would judge his entire being._

    Red sighed again, keeping a tight grip on his horse’s reins. He focused on the next teasing remark Vasquez was flinging his way.

    “You’re just mad because you found a white woman pretty, I bet.” The man said, leaning from his horse to taunt in Red’s face. Red scoffed and moved away, but Vasquez continued: “After all, what will your elders think! Not finding a nice native woman to settle down with!”

“Are you serious?” Red scowled, biting back the rest of the protest on his tongue. _They wouldn’t want me to breed at all_. “You are stupid.”

“So defensive!” Vasquez jeered, unperturbed by the insult. “I must have hit on something to make you like that, hombre.”

“Yeah, my nerves.” After a pause, Red huffed exasperatedly. “She caught me off guard.”

“That cannot be it.” Vasquez said. “You’ve had to have so many people stare at you. For like, the face paint and all that, no?”

“She did not stare like that.” Red shook his head. No, the woman, Marv? An odd name, but then again, people thought his name was odd--she hadn’t stared like he was something weird, something to be afraid of or shunned, or like he was a freak in a sideshow. Red swallowed, trying to squash the heat that wanted to rush to his face.

She had stared at him in awe. Like he was the most amazing person she’d ever seen.

“Strange.” He repeated, shivering his shoulders to shake off the weird feeling. “This whole place is strange.”

“You got that right, at least.” Sam chimed in. He had been listening in with quiet amusement. “But hopefully if what the good doctor says is true, it’ll be fairly open to the likes of us. And that’s a strange I’ll tolerate.”

Vasquez shrugged, but seemed willing to let the teasing drop. They were clearing the treeline now anyways, the ground sloping less and less as they reached the bottom of the valley. Now that the trees were behind them, they could get a stronger view of the town before them.

    It couldn’t have been much bigger than Rose Creek, with two main roads criss-crossing the town, with maybe a few more small roads shooting off of those like tree branches to hold more homes. The homes were mostly wooden, though Red noticed a few stone sheds built up next to them. They were little one-story shanties, the larger buildings making up the center of town. The sun was beginning to set, not that the sky was clear enough to tell--and the mountains were so high the town already was mostly in shadow. Still, Red could make out people dotting the streets and buildings like ants. There were more than he expected, and some people were far taller than any human had a right to be--so dryads, then, as tall as the trees they came from. The town started to glow as lanterns were lit in the windows.

    Red was so focused on the town that when a horse and rider sped past him he nearly jumped. They all had been walking along a pasture, with a simple two-railing wooden fence to mark its boundaries. At the far end of the pasture closest to town was a decent-sized barn, that was almost the same size, if not larger, than the house it was next to. The barn doors were opened wide, and the rider seemed in the process of herding a large group of sheep and goats towards it.

    She rode sidesaddle, her skirts ruffling in the wind as her dark roan raced around the sheep. As they continued closer along the fence Red could hear her whistling out commands. He looked to the herd of sheep, and frowned. Though they moved and started as if being chased, there was no dog that he could see to do it. A quick glance at the others told him they had noticed too--Vasquez especially. He had moved to be almost right up to the fence, eyes scanning the herd for any kind of hound. The woman couldn’t possibly have been herding them on her own--there were too many sheep, and on occasion they would funnel as if pressed in from both sides.

    “Magic?” Sam asked curiously.

    “None that I can find.” Vasquez said. Red found himself just as curious as the others. Was the woman whistling to her herd? Was it even possible to train that many sheep?

    They slowed considerably trying to figure it out, until all three in their distraction found themselves right by the barn. The woman caught their eyes and raised her hand in greeting, though she didn’t break off to approach them.

    “Ho!”

    By this point the sheep were beginning to file into the barn, the woman continuing to whistle until the last of them were in. She quickly dismounted her horse and ran to the doors to slide them shut. One stubborn black ram tried to muscle his way back out into the field, but she grabbed him by his horns and shoved him back.

    “That’s enough outta you, Rosario. In ya get.”

    With some exertion she was able to get the barn door shut. Finished with her task, she wiped her hand on her dull brown and red skirts and approached the men at her fence. Her tan skin glistened with sweat.

    “Hello,” She said, pulling her long braid of dark hair over her shoulder. Her voice was much softer now that she was talking to them, but it was no less genial, “Welcome to _Mára_. Are you passing through?”

    “We were, until we heard about the trouble plaguing this place. Figured we’d lend a hand, see what we can do about getting those missing folks home.” Sam nodded, offering his hand to shake. “Name’s Sam Chisholm. Duly sworn warrant officer from Wichita, Kansas. I’m also a licensed peace officer in the Indian Territories, Arkansas, Nebraska and seven other states.”

    Vasquez mouthed the familiar script behind Sam’s back, and Red Harvest had to hide a snicker.

    “That means you’re a lawman, then?” The woman smiled and took his hand. “We sure could use someone like you. My name’s Jane Granger. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

    “Likewise. These are my associates, Mr. Vasquez and Red Harvest.” Sam continued. Both men nodded their heads in greeting. She returned the nod.

    “A pleasure.” She repeated.

    “You, ah, you run this business by yourself, if you don’t mind me askin’?” Sam asked, gesturing towards the barn to mean the sheep.

    “Yes I do.” She answered dutifully. “No more Mr. Granger in the picture, I’m afraid.”

    “My condolences.”

    “Oh, please,” She chuckled, her dark eyes twinkling, “Spare your concern. He ain’t worth it, wherever that scoundrel is.”

    Sam seemed a little taken aback by her honesty with a stranger, but Red smiled. It was nice to meet people who didn’t hide.

    “You staying in town?” Granger asked. They nodded.

    “We’ll be stopping by the Sheriff’s office first, to offer our aid proper, but yes.” Sam said.

    “Well I wish you a safe stay in town then.” Granger said, “and thanks in advance for your—”

“ _What the—!_ ” Vasquez cried, jumping and jerking around. He was shaking his left foot wildly, and it took Red a moment to figure out why. A pale brown snake, mottled with dark spots, was winding its way up Vasquez’s boot. It wasn’t hissing or constricting in any way, and as Vasquez kicked out it was happy enough to release him. It was thrown a few feet back into the grass, only to be scooped up by Granger herself. She looked mortified.

“Oh my Lord, I am so sorry!” She gasped. She held the little snake in her hands, and lightly flicked its little snub nose. “You know better than to do that to strangers, Tal—uh, um…” She trailed off as she realized all three men were staring at her and gave a nervous smile. The silence stretched on. The little snake flicked its tongue.

“...Yours?” Sam asked.

“Yes!” Granger said, as if leaping on the chance to explain. “Ah, when my husband left me I had no money for dogs or anything to help me, but lucky enough for me this little fella was more inquisitive than most. Intelligent, too, and willing to help, odd as it sounds. Probably absorbed a lot of the magic around here. There’s quite a bit of it, you should know.”

“Oh we are definitely aware, ma’am.” Sam nodded. Granger’s smile became more knowing.

“You had a run-in with those Ents up the way, didn’t ya?” She jerked her head in the direction they had come.

“Yes, we…”

“Didn’t take the main road in.” She finished for Sam. “I’d feel a lot less safe here on the edge of town with all these disappearances if I didn’t have them out there. I hope you weren’t too roughed up.”

“We might have been, if not for the help of a local.” Sam said. “In fact we’re to meet him at the Sheriff’s office as well.”

“Oh! Well don’t let me keep you then,” Granger said pleasantly. Red noticed the snake had curled up her wrist and around her forearm, where it seemed quite content. It kept itself unwrapped enough to be able to peer at all of them curiously. Red could understand what Granger was saying about its intelligence. “If you ever want a nice home cooked meal, you come to me. Consider it a thanks in advance for your help.”

“We appreciate that very much, Ms. Granger.” Sam tipped his hat. “We might stop this way again just to ask a couple questions about these disappearances, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh not at all! Though I’m afraid I don’t know much. They’ve all been happening towards the north end of town by the orchards. But if you’ve got questions about the town itself I’d be glad to help.” She said.

“Much obliged. Have a safe evenin’.” Sam said, and the rest of them nodded their goodbyes. Granger waved, with her snake-free hand, but even before they were out of earshot Red saw Granger bring the snake up to eye-level, expression stern and exasperated.

“You could have gotten yourself squashed!”

Red could have sworn the snake shook its head, when he glanced over his shoulder, but anything more than that was blocked by the main house as they passed around it.

“Stranger and stranger.” Vasquez muttered under his breath. He wasn’t shaken, but certainly startled.

“Scared by a little snake?” Red smiled, taking his opportunity to tease.

“That was more than a snake.” Vasquez frowned.

“What, magic?” Sam asked. “She said—”

“More magic than just making a snake smart.” Vasquez shook his head. “Don’t know what it is, but whatever it is, it is big.”

“Seems to be a trend.” Sam sighed. “Well, in all likelihood Ms. Granger is aware of that bigness. I say we let well enough be. That snake didn’t bite your foot off, did it?”

“No.”

“Well all’s well that ends well then, don’t it?” Sam smirked. Vasquez rolled his eyes, but settled nonetheless.

Red had to keep himself from looking over his shoulder once again, knowing that buildings were between him and Ms. Granger now. A macabre part of him wondered if _she_ had the magic, and Mr. Granger was no longer around—as a _man_. He had heard plenty of stories of bitter women who cursed their lousy husbands. But the lady seemed honest enough, so he wasn’t sure. Turning his gaze back to the road, he pointed ahead of the others.

“About to be stranger.” He said in Comanche, as they crossed into the main drag down the center of town.

He had been right about the taller people being the dryads--although up close they hardly looked like people. Red had heard of dryads, but had known them as “tree-walkers”, and he had never seen one before. The first one to immediately catch his eye must have been over seven feet tall. Their body looked like a solid tree trunk, but curved just enough to imply a waist and hips. Multiple branches braided together and stretched down to form two legs, and similarly two arms stretched out from the torso, all dotted with leaves. Their face looked carved--the crown of their head was bark, but below their brow and nose was the exposed, lighter wood; Red could see the whorls in it. There were eyes, dark gold and large and inset into the wood--with large irises, and slit pupils. There was a mouth, and though there were divots in the wood that gave the semblance of lips the line of the mouth stretched far past them, across the dryad’s face. Branches protruded from the dryad’s face, forming a low, angled crown. Behind that long branches stretched down their back, much like human hair. The hair was bright green with foliage, though no blooms, just as any summer tree would be. Red could make out the leaf shape from where he was standing. Oak.

The dryad was having a tense discussion with a man who stood a good three feet below them, though with the hustle and bustle of town and Red’s difficulty with English he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

People and dryads alike were flitting this way and that across the streets; all that was needed were displays of produce and other goods and Red could believe it was a market. But it was too dark for a market, and there were no goods, just people and dryads talking, hefting boxes and bags from one house to another. Red tried to make out anything distinct, catching snippets of conversation here and there that he could parse.

“You gotta put on some glamour if you’re gonna fit through my doorway.” One woman said sternly to a dryad who indeed seemed twice as tall as the door in question.

“I’ve already got five of ya, but Whiggam down the road might still have room, go check with him.”

“This is the last thing we need, trees in _town_.”

“Quincey, do you have any of that treated soil left? I got three saplings and I wanna give them a nice place to sleep.”

“If you can’t fit me, at least take her.” A dryad begged at the door of one home, speaking English in a thick accent. She held a basket filled with soil, a young sprout growing from it. “I’ll stay outside, but please, please take her.”

“This is insane. They’re the ones behind this, and now they come to _us_ for shelter.” One man spat, hardly under his breath.

The inn was clearly demarcated, and on the other side of it was the Sheriff’s office, also labelled. A dryad and a man were arguing on the front steps of the former, and this time as the three men passed closer by Red could understand them.

“You ain’t got no right coming into our town and takin’ up _our_ space.” The man said darkly.

“It is only for safety. Do you we not deserve to seek it out much like you have?” The dryad said in a deep voice, much more calm. This dryad’s crown laid down against his branchy hair, blooming with Ash leaves.

“The deal was your kind would keep to the woods,” The man snarled, “This breaks the deal.”

“The woods are no longer safe. We do not like this arrangement any more than you do, but the mothers are scared for their children. Surely you have some compassion for them.”

“How about compassion for _our_ missing?” The man almost shouted. “We’d have found them by now if you hunks of wood actually _helped_ \--”

“We have helped in every way _possible_.” The dryad snapped, offended. His crown began to rise, much like the hackles on a dog. It was then that Red realized that most of the dryads had raised crowns. They were all agitated.

“Something recent has happened.” Red muttered to Sam in Comanche. He probably could have spoken in English, everyone was so busy they hardly noticed three newcomers walking amongst them.

“Let’s go talk to the Sheriff.” Was Sam’s only response. The geniality he had shown to Ms. Granger had been replaced with grim concern.

They tied up their horses and climbed the steps to the squat building. Inside the layout was quite simple: a small room, a desk on each side. A rack of guns on the right wall, as well as another desk that seemed more for mechanical work--perhaps gun repair. In the center of the back wall was a barred door, and beyond it Red could see jail cells. On the left was a narrow staircase leading up.

A man was seated at the left desk, hunched over and looking more than a little harried. He seemed unperturbed by their entrance--until he looked up and realized he was dealing with strangers. He had a narrow nose set in a pale face, and long, drawn lines down the corner of his mouth and in his forehead. He rose to his feet.

“Can I help you men?” He said.

“Yes, we’d like to speak to the Sheriff.” Sam nodded. “That you?”

“No I’m Deputy Carlson. Sheriff Kaplan is upstairs trying to resolve a situation.” The deputy said calmly, but unforthcoming. “What brings you here?”

“Well, we were passing through, but a missing persons case has been brought to our attention and we’re here to offer our assistance.” Sam said. “My name is Sam Chisholm, I’m a duly sworn warrant officer from Wichita, Kansas. I’m also a licensed peace officer in the Indian Territories, Arkansas, Nebraska and seven other states. These are my associates Red Harvest and Mr. Vasquez.”

Again Vasquez mouthed the ever-familiar speech, and again Red had to stifle his snicker.

“I hope that’s sufficient enough that we can talk to Sheriff Kaplan now.” Sam finished. Deputy Carlson hesitated, absorbing all the information just dumped on him, then nodded.

“Yeah, I suppose so. I can lead you up.” He came around his desk and started towards the stairs. He had hardly risen a step when the front door behind them swung open.

Dr. Greenbough stood there, harried and slightly out-of-breath. He smiled when he recognized them.

“I came here as soon as I could. Deputy.” He nodded to Deputy Carlson, who nodded in return. “I see introductions are not in order.”

“No. I suppose you’re the one who made them aware of the situation.” Carlson said neutrally. “Come on, lets go tell Kap the cavalry’s arrived.”

Carlson led them all upstairs to a room that might have been considered an office, and a spacious one at that. But the desk that once may have been center was now pushed haphazardly to the side, a large table having taken its place. On the table was a map, marked in several places and covered in a handful of crude wooden figures; it was illuminated from above by a lantern that hung from the ceiling. A man stood at the head of the table, staring contemplatively at the map as if it might give him answers. A dryad stood across from him, slouched to the point of almost kneeling to avoid knocking their head on the ceiling--the largest dryad Red had seen yet. Oddly, their face was not carved to show features like other dryads Red had seen: their dark eyes had no discernible pupil or iris, and the dryad’s face was eerily smooth; the bark of their skin was cracked and knotted, old. Pinecones hung from their crown and from their hair, a thick blanket of pine needles. The dryad had turned their attention to the intrusion, but the man kept staring at the map.

“This better be good, Michael.” The man grumbled.

“Yessir. Help, so it would seem.” Carlson said. At that, the man looked up, and Red could then see the silver badge on his chest. He must be Sheriff Kaplan then.

“This here is Sam Chisholm,” Carlson gestured to the man, “he’s uh, a bounty hunter, from Kansas, and uh, um--”

“Licensed peace officer in the Indian Territories, Arkansas, Nebraska and seven other states. These are--” Sam paused, this time catching Vasquez’s mimicry and Red’s snickering, and fixing them both with a stern glare, before adding: “These are my associates, Mr. Vasquez and Red Harvest.”

“My name is Isaiah Kaplan. Pleasure to meet you.” The Sheriff said, approaching and offering his hand to all three of them. There was a noticeable stiffness to it, but Red had a feeling it had more to do with the stress visible in the Sheriff’s dark eyes than the strange men he was meeting. “Here to help, you said?”

“Yes.” Sam said. “We were coming from an unorthodox direction out of town and, well, had an unfortunate run-in with some…”

“Ents.” Dr. Greenbough supplied, and picked up where Sam left off. “I happened upon the situation and was able to rescue them before anything truly disastrous happened. I know of Sam Chisholm and his skill, and solicited his help in solving the trouble we’ve had here.”

Sheriff Kaplan shot a bemused look over his shoulder at the dryad, who had not moved from the table. He shook his head and sighed.

“I can’t lie and say we wouldn’t be grateful for the help. We certainly need it. Sabina and I were trying to determine locations for more search parties when you came in. I’m afraid we can’t offer much in terms of payment for your services. We’re a pretty self-sufficient town, not a lot of extra money circulating…”

“That’s fine,” Sam nodded, though Vasquez frowned, “All we would ask for then is room and board.”

“I...I’m sorry, but I can’t offer that either.” Kaplan sighed again. “Meals, sure, but I’m afraid you will have to stay out of town.”

The alarm in Sam’s face was vocalized by Dr. Greenbough.

“What! We can’t turn them out, Isaiah!” He said, taken aback. Kaplan raised his hand to try and calm the man.

“It’s not that I’m turning them out, Doctor.” He explained. “It’s that we have no room for them.”

“But the inn--”

“Is full.”

“With _whom_?” Greenbough snapped. Kaplan blinked at the man, expression incredulous.

“Doctor, do you not know what’s going on?” He asked.

“I came right here after escorting Marv Henson home.” Greenbough said stiffly, “I noticed the panic in the streets. I can only assume someone has antagonized the forest again, and if so, I still see no reason to let these men sleep in the wilderness! We are not so lost as to forget hospitality!”

“It’s not for lack of hospitality, Doctor.” Kaplan returned, voice rising in volume. “It’s for lack of _space_. All the dryad mothers have panicked! They’re desperate for security and now half the forest is trying to wedge itself into town. The inn is full, and almost every household is trying to take--”

“Why would they come to town?” Greenbough interjected.

“Because a sapling’s gone missing, Jason!” Kaplan finally snapped. As quick as it had come, the tension fled the room. Greenbough froze.

“...What?”

“A sapling has gone missing.” Kaplan repeated. “I thought you knew.”

“What? No!” Jason cried, “When did this happen?”

“According to the mother, about three to four hours ago. Once she couldn’t find the kid she panicked, and word spread, and now here we are.” The Sheriff explained. He beckoned the group over to the table, though to Carlson he instructed: “You can head back down, Carlson. You know all of this already. Need you to make sure there’s no trouble out there.”

“Yessir.” Carlson said, and tramped back downstairs.

“The sapling was last seen around here,” Kaplan pointed to the map, in particular to the river that cut into the valley from the east, on the other side of said river from the orchards. A small pin had been placed in the spot, and Red noticed six other pins spaced around the orchards and the town itself. Before the Sheriff could continue, the dryad gestured for him to pause. They then pointed to a corner of the room. In the darkness Red had not been able to notice her.

Another dryad had curled onto a chair almost comically small for her, just by the window overlooking an alley. She was rocking back and forth and mumbling, her knees hugged to her chest and her branch crown standing up ramrod straight. Her skin was a brilliant orange red color, though in spots along her arms and chest (that Red could see) the bark peeled to show green skin beneath. Her hair rustled softly in the now quiet room.

“Menzesii.” Greenbough gasped, and rushed to her. He began talking to her in a language Red didn’t recognize--Sylvan, probably. She didn’t react to his gentle hands on her shoulders, but her mumbles sounded more coherent when he began speaking to her.

“Apparently she ran off to play near the river. The bank being in view of town, as well as being in broad daylight, Menzesii thought the sapling would be safe while she gathered food.” Kaplan explained.

“Have any of the other disappearances happened during the day?” Sam asked. Kaplan shook his head no.

“This is the first. Whoever is behind this is getting braver.”

“Witnesses?” Red asked, tapping the orchards. “Workers?”

“Workers, yes. Witnesses, unfortunately just one. Nichols says he saw the kid playing with rocks at the riverside. Saw her stand up and move back into the trees, assumed the mother called her back. That’s all.”

“That is something.” Vasquez pointed out. “A child is curious, but with all the vanishings every child is being warned about strangers.”

Kaplan nodded, though he paused.

“The townsfolk, sure. Can’t say the same for the forest. This is the first time one of their own as been taken, I don’t know if they’ve been taking the same precautions up to this p--”

“ _Dare not_.” Menzesii suddenly hissed, attention snapping to the table. Her voice was hoarse. “I--I _protect_. I--I _warn_ her to not--to not hear stranger, only me. Only me. She say yes, only me. Now she gone--” she began to rise to her feet, but the Doctor gently pushed her back down.

“That is not what he meant, my dear, calm down.” He pleaded. She obeyed, but she still glared at the lot of them.

“ _Ingóle_. _Ingóle_ took my one.” She said.

“Magic.” Greenbough translated for them.

“Yeah, that’s all we got.” Kaplan huffed. “Either magic, or it’s someone the victims know and trust--which is what you were going to suggest, Mr. Vasquez?”

Vasquez nodded.

“Could it be both?” Sam asked.

“Yes. But a lot of people here have magic of some kind or other.”

“The hypnotising kind?”

“No…” Kaplan trailed off, looking to the dryad at the table. They sighed, a great sound of wind rustling through leaves and branches more than breath.

 _My apologies for not speaking sooner._ The voice rang through all of their heads, slow, old, and wizened, sounding like branches groaning in the wind and at the same time like several elders speaking at once. Sam, Vasquez, and Red all flinched in equal measure at the sudden presence in their heads. Red suddenly felt himself encased, though not in the same way as when the Ents dragged him below the earth; this felt more serene, though morose: a world closed on all sides by sap, by wood, by warm soil between his fingers, and the resignment that went with it. He wondered if the others felt the same. _It is challenging for me to speak to more than one not-tree at a time nowadays. I am Sabina._

“Pleasure.” Sam said, voice coming out slightly strangled. Red managed a nod, but Vasquez was entirely frozen, staring at the dryad in pure awe.

_To answer your question, those humans and not-humans who live in town, and have magic, none have that strong enough to bend the wills of others. Not that we are aware of. But...but that is indeed an ability some of my people possess._

“Your people, you the leader, then?” Sam asked.

 _Of a kind. I am Silent. One of the oldest, soon to be Rooted._ _When I am called upon to speak, I am listened to_.

“If dryads are the ones who can hypnotise, does that mean you suspect one of your own?” Sam asked, straight to the point.

 _No._ The response was definitive.

“We’ve been over this, Sabina, we can’t say for sure--” Kaplan started. She cut him off.

 _You were not there. You were not there when the blood was spilled, nor did you spill any yourself. My people have plenty a reason to dislike yours, and yours have plenty a reason to dislike mine, but when peace was reached, peace was sowed into the soil, uptaken into our roots, into ourselves. To cause strife like this goes against all we have come to believe._ Red suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, like he couldn’t breathe; the soil thick, pressing against his body, sap in his throat. _To harm our allies makes no sense--to harm our own even less so. We would never, else the pain and suffering we caused would haunt our branches till our leaves withered to dust and we could grow no more. Even now this loss is straining us all._ Sabina looked to Menzesii sadly, and ice crusted over the soil and froze the sap, making Red instinctively shiver. _It is something from the outside, that I am sure of. Someone looking to destroy the entire valley._

“A cheerful sentiment.” Kaplan said bitterly.

_That was not cheerful at all._

“Sarcasm, ma’am.”

 _Ah_.

“Do...do you have a list of suspects, then?” Sam asked, more to Kaplan than Sabina. “Anyone at all you think might want to cause trouble?”

“There are some folks in town who have less than pleasant views of the forest.” Kaplan affirmed. “But none--or so I thought--with enough ambition to try something like _this_. I wouldn’t admit this to everyone, but I would like to hope it is someone in town, because no matter how much hatred there is, it means there’s a better chance of those missing still being alive out there. But I’ve already interrogated every one of those suspects. When I had enough men at my back, hell, I had them watched. Nothing. And then Howell… Deputy Howell vanished, and anyone who might have helped me spooked--except for Carlson.”

“They thought it could be a warning.”

“For all I know it was. But I can’t let it stop me.” Kaplan sighed, wiping a hand down his face. “Now you understand how stretched thin I am, Mr. Chisholm, and I am ever the more grateful for your help. How long have you been on the road?”

“‘Bout three weeks, or something of the kind. Took us almost all day to ride in.” Sam answered truthfully.

“Then you must be exhausted. Right now all we’re doing is combing the area where Menzesii’s child was taken, and I’ve got some of the men and plenty of Sabina’s people out there. I ain’t gonna ask you to head out when you don’t know the area well yet, especially in the dark. You can head on next door to the inn for a good meal, tell ‘em I sent ya. I’ll stop by and show you where best to make camp for the night. I’m sorry we can’t fit ya.” Kaplan said.

“I’m still against having them camp out of town.” Greenbough said, rising to his feet. “They then risk abduction themselves. I can take them--”

“You might want to check with your sister before saying that.” Kaplan said, a sympathetic smile on his face. Greenbough frowned, then grumbled under his breath. Sam seemed to notice that Greenbough was going to keep arguing.

“Thank you for fighting on our behalf, Doctor.” He said, holding out a hand to placate the man. “But we understand the gravity of the situation. We’re more than capable of taking care of ourselves, and with the three of us I’m sure we’ll be fine--since these abductions occur when the victim is alone--am I right in that?” He turned to Kaplan. The Sheriff nodded.

“It’s settled then.” Sam nodded. Vasquez suddenly elbowed the man, and muttered to him something Red couldn’t catch.

“We’ll talk at the inn.” Sam replied sternly, not amused by whatever the vaquero said. He turned to the locals. “We’ll take our leave.”

“I’ll be by soon.” The Sheriff said.

“I’ll see if I can’t arrange _something_ other than camping for you.” Greenbough said, though he crouched down to comfort Menzesii once more. “But I must see to Menzesii first.”

 _Your presence is welcome_. Was all Sabina said. The dryad removed themself from their minds. Red blinked as he breathed air in a little differently, through human lungs once more. He had hardly been aware of the change. Sam lost all of his stiffness. He led them towards the stairs and down, though when they reached the bottom, Vasquez wasn’t with them. Red and Sam shared a look and Sam peered back upstairs. He whistled, and Vasquez practically stumbled down in his haste. He had never quite lost the awestruck look in his gaze he had when Sabina first spoke.

“Lo siento.” He mumbled.

Carlson wasn’t at his desk when they passed, though they quickly learned the reason when they exited the Sheriff’s office. The streets had emptied for the most part, darkness having mostly fallen, but outside a household was a small crowd--and Carlson was in the thick of it, pushing space between a man and a dryad--different from the ones arguing outside the inn, each held back by their own kind but vying for each other nonetheless.

“You took her!” The man, graying but not quite old, screamed. “You took my Wisty when you couldn’t have what you wanted soon enough! You’re taking them all away to curse ‘em!”

“How dare you!” The dryad shouted back, crown flaring. “How fast you lose your trust! Have I not proven myself to you! Have I not changed so much of my life to prove I care only for her happiness!”

“You’re both fools!” A woman, also graying, was tugging on the man’s arm. “Cut this nonsense out or both of you are sleeping in the shed!”

The three men stood and watched as the arguing continued--though the two combatants were fighting against those who held them, they fought with less fire than before. Whatever had incensed them, it looked like it wasn’t going to be violent now, just vehement.

“Let’s leave well enough alone.” Sam said, leading them into the saloon.

If the outside of town had quieted, Red could see why: it felt like most of its inhabitants had crammed themselves into the place. Tables of people and dryads were overcrowded, many people standing. While talk may have started out quiet, hushed and worried whispers, the amount of people meant it was loud nonetheless. So engulfed in their troubles the people were they barely noticed the men until Sam started guiding them all towards a small table with two chairs in the back corner. Conversations would hush as they passed, only to pick up again in a different tone. Red did his best to keep his face neutral.

“You two sit, I’ll secure us a meal.” Sam said, vanishing back amongst the throng. Vasquez sat, but immediately learned why no one had occupied the table. One of its legs was badly damaged, causing it to wobble. The chair creaked ominously under Vasquez’s weight, so Red chose to stand. He’d rather get a good view of the saloon anyways. The din dug under his skin in the worst way. Too many words, so few of which he could actually understand, some of them for sure at his expense, given the way some patrons looked at him. The dryads were more brazen than the humans, making eye contact with Red and holding his gaze with nothing but curiosity. He didn’t mind curiosity as much as the suspicious glances the humans shot at him.

“I’d rather camp than stay here anyways.” He grumbled in Comanche. Vasquez didn’t understand a lick of what he said, of course, but the sentiment must have gotten across, because he made a small noise of agreement. He seemed rather pensive, elbows precariously on the table and hands clasped in front of his mouth, chewing on the cigarillo he had pulled out but not lighted. For a moment Red wondered what had delayed the vaquero at the Sheriff’s office. Then he decided it wasn’t his business. To each their own path.

Soon Sam was weaving his way back to the table, though he only held a bottle and three glasses in his hands.

“Food’s coming. Cook’s a little pressed, I’m sure you can imagine.” Sam huffed, finally setting down his bounty. They stood at a noticeable angle thanks to Vasquez’s weight, and Sam frowned when he saw it, but continued on nonetheless. “Bartender opened right up when I told him Kaplan sent us though, so I was able to nab us a drink on the house.”

“Great.” Vasquez smiled, reaching out for the bottle. The weight shift almost caused it to topple, but he grabbed it before it could. “We got the shit table, jefe.”

“I can see that.” Sam said. Vasquez courteously poured drinks for them all, and even Red took his when offered. He wasn’t too fond of alcohol, and this particular kind tasted horrific, but he knew its effects. And he wouldn’t mind it dulling some of the noise that surrounded them. After they had all taken a drink, Sam set his down and looked between Red and Vasquez.

“Well. Your thoughts?”

When neither answered immediately, Sam huffed.

“Just because I tend to speak for you most often doesn’t mean you two don’t get a say. Vasquez.” He said pointedly, raising an eyebrow. The other man shifted.

“Hey, I won’t say no to free food. Used to camping by now. But that is all we’re gonna take for this? At least Rose Creek had a reward.”

“So you don’t want to help this town?” Sam tilted his head. Vasquez’s face twisted.

“It is not that I don’t. Just want a little more compensation, maybe.” He said. At Sam’s wry look he shrugged helplessly, grinning around his cigarillo. “I am not a saint. We know this.”

Red noticed the grin didn’t reach his eyes. Nonetheless Sam sighed.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He turned his piercing gaze to Red. “And you?”

Red scanned the crowded inn. He had no place better to be. And he didn’t like the idea of someone kidnapping children.

“They need help. Why not.” He said. “You?”

“I think it’s obvious I feel obliged to help. Especially as I’m known here, somewhat.” Sam said.

“Your friend, in the desert.” Red tilted his head. “What about her?”

That gave Sam pause. Had he forgotten the original reason they had set out in this direction? The man had fallen completely silent when they had left Rose Creek, lost in his own mind--he had not spoken again until the sun had fallen below the horizon.

_“I’m headin’ to Nevada. There’s an old friend of ours--mine--” That stumble was as close to emotion as Sam was letting himself get. “--Goodnight’s gone. She deserves to know. Won’t deny your company, but I don’t expect you to tag along. Y’all are free to head your separate ways with your shares.”_

And yet, they hadn’t. Red had been wandering for years, a living ghost in the plains--this was the first time he had had his feet on solid ground with actual _purpose_ in his step. He wouldn’t deny that he wanted to hold onto that feeling for as long as he could manage. And Vasquez...to simply put it, he would just be lonely. He’d be going back on the run, and on his own. Money wouldn't fix a warrant ( _if you’re not white_ , Red thought dryly). After Rose Creek, Red could understand how difficult it would be to return to that path. Sam had remained tight-lipped about this friend who lived in the desert, but it was a goal to move towards, so it was something.

“She...she’ll understand.” Sam said, finally. “It’s not like Goodnight can get any more dead. I’ll get to Nevada somehow. But I ain’t leaving these people here with some kind of trouble at their door, and that she’ll certainly understand.”

“So, lonely town. Strange people. Weird trees. Mysterious kidnapping...” Vasquez said, smile becoming more genuine. “And three men with nothing better to do.”

“I’m in.” Red Harvest said. Sam mouth quirked up at the simple, firm answer. He looked to Vasquez.

“I’m obviously in. And you?”

Vasquez grinned, all teeth, predatory.

“Some _chingado_ is out there taking good people, kids. Wouldn’t mind making him regret that.”

Red couldn’t help but smile at the thought too. Solid ground. Solid purpose, once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo!!! We've done it lads, we've made it to the end of Cycle 1. We now have fully established the main story, and taken a good look at the past. Not only that, but I've finally got the playlist started and up! Each song correlates to a chapter (and they're in order). I wanted to include House of the Rising Sun by Heavy Young Heathens, since it was the trailer music to the film and I thought it'd be a nice callback, but it doesn't fit with any of the chapters, nor is it on spotify >:T that being said, the playlist will update with every chapter update! Give it a listen if you're interested.
> 
> I can't figure out a way to link the playlist, but it's titled The Cursed Valley and its album art is the moodboard I made that's in chapter 1. Hopefully it's easy to find! :0
> 
> Unforunately, this comes with some semi-bad news--now that Cycle 1 is done, there will be no more updates until the next cycle of 8 chapters is finished. They won't be published as they're finished like before. This way I can focus on making a cohesive product for y'all, and it'll help keep me focused on finishing it. 
> 
> But I'm always down to talk about CV, whether here, on tumblr, or on discord lol. Love you all and hope you've enjoyed the journey so far! <3


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